The waves slapped against the boat, water slapping against the tightly bound reeds as it rocked

in the gentle current.

Braced against the boat's movement, the pair of fishermen worked as a team to cast their

nets into the cool depths of the Pacific.

The cotton fibers woven together with expert skill touched down on the water.

It was October, late spring along the arid coastline south of the equator.

The shoals of sardines were plentiful at this time of the year, teaming in their millions

beneath the deep blue surface.

The seabirds caught, circling above in their dozens as they too looked to snag their

fill from the ocean's bounty.

A few hours' work filled to read both three times the height of a person with the day's

catch.

Thousands upon thousands of the tiny fish ready to be eaten back on land.

The fishermen paddled back toward the shore, taking in the sight of the dry brown hills

rising above the beach.

It almost never rained here in the shadow of the snow capped Andy's mountains, visible

from the tops of those nearby hills, but that didn't make this a bad place to live, far

from it.

The boats slid through the waves, heading toward the mouth of a small river that snakes

down through the hills to empty into the Pacific.

The fishermen paddled toward a mound that jotted noticeably above its banks a little

away in the north.

...