Pacifica passes by. Y recalls a story on its lone concrete pier:
There were more fishermen than I had ever seen in my life. The whole place smelled like those fish, with their deep red gills flailing for air they could eat. Anchovies, a ray with its tail cut off bleeding on the floor. One of the fishermen, skin tanned like leather, turned to me, and out of his mouth came all the waters of the delta, rushing out into the sea.
Your stories are all the same, Y.
How so?
Full of holes, leaking salt and sand.