The pots come up empty twice a year

Twice a year the pots come up empty, and it is never quite the same twice. The first time, the tide has been running hard and the crabs have moved off the ground; the second, the water is simply too cold and too clear, and everything down there is keeping still. We haul, we look, we tip the pots back over the side and start again.

Down on the quay the fishermen do not make a fuss about it. An empty pot is not a failed morning, just the sea saying it wants a rest. We take our coffee back up Pier Street, write the date in the book, and let the kitchen know the pots will wait until the tide turns.