There was still half an hour to go before the sun would start on its slow creep down the back of the hills of the Mizen. Miriam looked at her glass. There were two sips left of the pale brown watered down whiskey. She knew there was no water left in the jug. That should be enough.
She watched as the two fishing boats came in passing through the gap by Owen Island. Listening to the diesel thud of their engines playing out across the bay. A few dozen seagulls hung in the air behind them. They were following the boats more out of habit than any great expectation that there would be much by way of pickings coming their way. It was still too early in the year and the fish had not yet come back into the bay. The boats had gone out to take advantage of the still water and so that the engines could be run through after the weeks of inactivity.
As the boats got closer Miriam saw that one of them had a small stack of pots at the back. So they must have been out for lobsters pulling up the pots that had been put down before Christmas. She would get up when they got in and go onto the pier to see what they had.
She took the first of the two sips that were left in her glass. She would finish when she got up to go the pier.