It was getting light enough to see out into the ocean. The unusually calm body of salt water in front of me also known as the Strait of Magellan, looked cold and grey in the early morning light. A wispy mist that was sure to burn off soon, partially covered the entire surface, with only a patch of water evident here and there. The hills on the opposite shore looked fussy through the mist, only visible for a hundred feet or so, the rest, including the elevated tops, hidden under the usual low hanging clouds.
Occasionally I could hear what I knew to be whales breathing through their blowholes. They were far out, but the ocean was flat, and sound carries a long ways over smooth water. That, and the fishy smell that amounted to whale breath gave them away. Unmistakable, if you asked me—like sound, the strong odor carried for quite a ways and hard to confuse with anything else.
Some people I knew had the misguided notion they were the masters of these waters, and all the bounty within, theirs for the taking. Others, more whimsical perhaps, looked at the ocean like a partner, as in “you float my boat, I catch your fish, and then we’re even.” Still others didn’t dwell on it at all, only used it for as much as they could get from it, then parked their boat and left without even a backwards glance or a mumbled thank you. I was sure that for every person that made a living from the ocean, or had at least visited the ocean, there was an opinion on its present condition. A condition that looked timeless and unchanging from where I stood.
From book 2 (as yet no name) in Tierra del Fuego.