Upon the dirty sea ships sail toward one another. They ride the line. They are black shadows, slowly creeping, beneath a swollen and bruised colored sky. Out there no wind stirs. Their masts are without sail. Crude does not fuel cold furnaces and boilers are empty drums of warm air. The eye adjusts and follows the silent ships as they slip past one another. They ride the line without wake. They do not disturb the oiled sea or change silt-less shoals beyond an invisible channel. He watches them and waits for those ships to return.
He forgets to breathe.
Fog horns moan and moan again just within his cone of hearing on a rare evening without fog or mist. Air pent-up inside his chest rushes into his throat and through his nose and mouth. Sea odor causes his eyes to tear. He wheezes and coughs and spits an oily gob into an oil-water mixed puddle next to him. Pressure in his bladder reminds him to pee. He thinks about peeing for distance. He then pees for relief.
He searches the sea. He swears the line has moved closer to shore.
The ships are gone.