The warm golden sun set over the bay, where Old Marcus sat on his pier, pipe in hand. Underneath him, and under the weathered, wooden planks his chair rest on, the sea lapped against the beach with minimal haste. He rocked back, listening more carefully to the soft waves, and sighed.
From his pocket he produced a small, oak tinder box, which he opened slowly with a precise and careful hand movement. It was a memento of his fathers and before that his grandfathers; it was older than him and the pier combined. He took his herbs from his box and filled his pipe, lit it with a swift match, and sat even further back into his chair.
Though nearing his 80’s, Old Marcus worked each and every day by fishing in his boat. It was hard graft, but he supplied the local village with several fish a day and they kept him well stocked in everything else he could ever need. Some days were more fruitful than others, some dragged on longer than he’d like, but he still made an effort each and every day to prop his chair up on the pier and watch the sun come down. He wanted for little else in life but the evening; it was his reward for a long day done. Old Marcus knew that when the sky was red and the sun half peaked above the horizon, it was his time to rest and recuperate; undisturbed by anything.
AS the last bit of the sun went down, Old Marcus closed his eyes slowly, his breathing in time with the sea, and eased himself even further back into his chair. He was content.