Infinity symbol with moon and back lettering on ribs

You are on the quay with your mother's flask, counting lights. Eleven boats are out past the Ness and twelve is missing. The Kittiwake's lamp has not come round the point since the afternoon. Donal Reece, who has run the harbour office for thirty years, keeps his radio turned low and says nothing, which is worse than shouting. You remember what your father said at the gangway that morning, pressing a kiss onto your forehead with cold lips: "I love you to the moon and back, girl, and I'll be here when you come down." You had rolled your eyes at him. You would give a great deal now to roll them again.

At twenty to four a sliver of moon slid clear of the cloud, low over the water, and the Kittiwake came out from behind the headland with one engine coughing and a torn net trailing off her stern. Phosphorescence fizzed along her wake like a scatter of small lights. Her skipper was waving a glove over the rail as if he had only been late for tea. Donal let out a breath that sounded like a laugh.

You catch the mooring line when she comes alongside and make it fast without looking, because your hands have learned it. Your father hands you his wet gloves and grins with his whole face. Above the harbour the moon hangs in its curl, and you both look up at it without saying so. Out and back, out and back. The sea has never asked for anything more.