today,
an early morning wake up call: "We are going to Moss Landing to pick up the craps like half an hour ago." I dress, burn my self on the lousy coffee I buy 10 minutes later at a gasstation with the terrible honest name "Rotten Robbie". We hit the 1 south, escaping the heavy rain stalling at the Santa Cruz Mountains at Watsonville. Vast empty fields covered in plastic reflect the sunlight agressively, and we simultaneously but on our shades and light up a smoke.
The harbour lies still, not an engine running and only a few people is around. We wander aruond the boats and in the far corner we spot one boat "Beatrice" with rinsing water spilling out. A large tank on deck holds about 100 huge live dungeon- craps. In takes us about half an hour and three faild attemps to wake up the sailor, discret knocks and yells. A harbour patrol guy walks buy and tells us he came in just 4 hours ago and that it she was the only boat fishing in the storm that hit last night. Back in the car we try to figure out a plan B, as a freaky looking hippiegirl monster walks up to the boat and jumps aboard. We run out, get hold of her and purchase 14 craps at an average weight of three pounds, 7 dollars a piece, which is 60 percent lower the market price. We drive home like hunters almost feeling we actually went to sea and caught the craps.
On the patio, back home, we set up the propane stove to boil the fuckers red and dead. I call friends in Denmark just in time to hear the CityHall-bells go off, people singing the national anthem in the background I almost cry. For a minute there I`m nowhere. Not the past, not the present, not the future.

Best wishes.