Knot a waste

The tide was too high, the wind too strong, and the ocean churned with a fury that kept even the most seasoned fishermen onshore. In Bokkomlaan, where the salted scent of drying fish lingered in the air and the wooden jetties groaned with the rise and fall of the river, the men did what they always did when the sea turned angry—they sat by the water’s edge, fixing their nets.

Johan, his face creased like the charts he no longer needed, worked in quiet rhythm, his thick fingers weaving the nylon strands back together. Next to him, Pieter squinted at the sky, a habit of men who had spent their lives reading the weather as easily as they read their own thoughts.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Pieter muttered, watching the clouds drift like untied boats.

Johan grunted in reply. They had learned long ago that the sea was neither enemy nor friend, only a force with a will of its own. When she called, they went. When she raged, they waited.

Across the jetty, young Thomas fidgeted with a net of his own, though his hands moved with less patience than the older men’s. He had not yet learned the art of waiting.

“We should go out,” he said suddenly, his voice cutting through the calm. “There’s fish to be caught. We can’t just sit here.”

Johan didn’t look up, only tugged another knot into place. “And if we do?”

Thomas shrugged. “At least we’ll be doing something.”

Johan finally lifted his gaze, studying the boy. “And what good is effort without timing?”

Thomas frowned but said nothing. He was young, eager, and had yet to understand the way of things. It was a lesson learned not in books, nor in lectures, but in the waiting itself.

“When the storm settles, the fish will be there,” Pieter said, setting aside his work. “Rushing won’t bring them sooner, only make fools of us in the process.”

The boy exhaled sharply but turned back to his net, working more carefully this time, matching the unhurried pace of the others. Outside, the wind howled over the river, rattling the drying racks and bending the reeds. But inside Bokkomlaan, there was only the steady pull of thread through fingers, the patient mending of what was broken, and the quiet understanding that sometimes, the best thing to do was nothing at all.

Because the sea would calm. The fish would return. And when they did, the nets would be ready.