Sailors and the East Sea

The sun dried starfish stuck to the pavement. She pulled one up and ran her fingers cross the deadness, held it palm up then slipped it in her purse, smiling. The octopus eyes pointed in wayward directions, heads flopped across a rope and tentacles crawling downwards.

The seaside town had hit its slumber; tourists cleared off the beaches and empty harbourfront hotels boarding up to winter. Trash climbed up the trailers sitting on the boat strip, nets piled high, empty of the day’s catch.

Across the two-bit ferry we found a road eerily empty, walked across the bridge and dipped our fingers in the ocean. The guidebook said we could take the city bus up from the beaches.

The sign read 1.5 kilometers to destination. We walked straight past it.