...death of a fisherman...

The three men were sitting at the end of the dock shrouded in fog. The crates they sat on were rotten, crumbling from the salty air. Their cheeks red and raw, visible even in the grey morning veil. Words were not to be found as they sat warming in their coats, drinking nips of brandy, and expelling a fog of sour and salt.
Finally, the greyhaired one of the three spoke.
"You know...it's been a year to this day MacLeod went down."
Slow nods were all.
The youngest of the three stirred, clearing his lungs of the tired air.
"That bastard was crazy for going out there during the biggest storms."
Grunts were all.
The quiet one of the three pulled out a cigarette and lit in a fluid motion that defied magic.
Smoke mingled with the fog and faded.
Then, he spoke up.
"May he live on in peace, deep under the sea, forever in our hearts and memories."
The cigarette crackled in the quiet.
Slowly, the fog burned off and the men sat there silently. The brandy ran low as the sun rose higher behind their backs. The briny air cut through the warm mist with a sharpness.
The greyhaired one stood up and sighed.
He turned to the sun and closed his eyes. It was a beautiful day yet he couldn't hold back his sadness.
The other men sat quietly still, smoking cigarettes and finishing off the brandy.
A seagull's cry cut across the sea and they looked up at the sky in turn.
It was blue and clear now yet they saw beyond that. So far they gazed, they looked endlessly at the horizon.
They looked at each other and saw the same comfort in knowing they will end their time with the ocean at sea.