The young American couple was staying for a week in this far northwest county of Ireland in a self-catering cottage that had a fine view of the lough.  The young man had come to the pier to be alone and to think, and he had been watching the men fishing for mackerel since before the day had begun quickly fading to evening.  Several small cars were parked near the end of the pier where there was no barrier, and men were in front of the cars fishing.  Some fished from the edge of the pier facing the breakwater.  Beyond the breakwater, the lough became wider between steep hillsides, and opened into the North Atlantic.  A cold wind was bringing a low fog over the dark water, but a village across the lough still showed faintly.

The young man and his wife had talked about the possibility for several days now and always they came to the same conclusion, with always the same reservations concerning how the other felt about the matters they could not talk about directly.

“I don’t think this world is a place to bring anyone you will come to love so deeply,” he had said to her.

“And you think it’s only becoming more so, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

They each told the other that not wanting to have a child was in no way any indication of a limit to the certainty they had toward their time together.  But each, alone, felt it was.  That single withholding from the other had begun to take something from them being together now, so that there were often silent moments between them.  They both had finally learned it was better if they did not try to fill those voids with uncertain words.

Late in the afternoon the young man had left the cottage and had taken his backpack and walked down to an off-license where he bought four widget cans of Guinness.  Then walking back he stopped at the pier to watch some of the townsmen in their evening’s occupation fishing.

A man wearing a brown Guinness cap was having good success, there facing the breakwater, with a number of fish in a plastic shopping bag lying on the pier behind him.  The American man had seen him fishing from the same spot each of the last three evenings:  methodically, without any change in his subdued and persistent manner.  The fisherman was small and thin and appeared much older than the American man.

“You’re doing well tonight,” the American man said when the successful fisherman turned back with a hooked fish.

The man said, “Oh fair; only fair.”

He removed the fish from the hook and tossed it flipping onto the plastic bag.  Then he became intent on re-baiting his hooks, to get his line back in the water quickly.  The fish flopped off the bag onto the asphalt and then lay still.

“What bait are you using?” the American man asked, wanting the conversation to continue.  When he left the pier he would have dinner in the quiet of the cottage and then read or watch the sparse television offerings of the BBC to conclude his day.

“We always cut up something we’ve took,” the fisherman answered.  He held his rod tip high, letting the line swing forward.  There were two rigs of spoons amid glass beads and hooks, with about three feet of line between them.

“Do you sell your fish?”

“Sure, much as you want.”

“I’ll wait until I’m ready to leave; you might catch something big.”

“No, I’ll not.  There’ll be just what you see here.  That’s all we get now.”

“They look good.”

The fisherman did not say anything.

“I’ve got some cans of Guinness in my pack if you’d care for one,” the American offered.  “Not in trade,” he added, awkwardly, “but just to cheer your fishing.”

He pulled two cans of the strong stout from his backpack.  He opened his.

The fisherman nodded and took the can.  “I’ll have it for later,” he said, then started to walk away.

The American took a small camera from his pack.

“A photo?  If you don’t mind.”

The fisherman hesitated.  Then he stood still, in a stiff manner.  His baggy trousers rippled around his legs in the breeze.  He tugged his jacket together and pulled the bill of his cap lower just before the flash of the camera cut through the dimness.

“You people are bombing again,” the fisherman said.  “I saw it on the tele before I come out here.”

The American nodded.  “Yes I know.  That’s part of why I wanted to go to the pier and watch the day end.”

“Your country’s ending other people’s days there now, while I’m catching these mackerel:  your high-tech planes and the apparatuses you people are so keen on.  You know that?”

“Yes,” he answered flatly.  “It’s something about regime change, though that’s a part of their larger plan of bringing democracy to the world.”

“There’s no larger plan than not dying today.”

“I agree fully.”

The young American man took a long drink from his can of stout and then rattled the widget inside the can slightly.

The man stepped nearer and handed his can of Guinness to the young American.

“Keep it.  And I’ll keep my fish.”

The young man hesitated but took back the can of stout.

“Maybe another time,” he said.

“No, it’ll be the same then too.  It’s the way you people are for getting things how you want them.  And you’ll never change.”

The young American looked at the lough through the fog closing in around them.

The fisherman’s shoulders sagged and he breathed out a long sigh.

“The boy’s in the Forces now, ya know,” he said quietly.  “And the family–his two younger sisters and mother–worries for his own wellbeing after today.”

“I can imagine your concern.”

“Can you now?  You have children?”

“No.”

The fisherman looked back at the young man and then walked to the edge of the pier.  He dropped his line into the water and watched there, as if considering what might be present in the darkness where he could not see.

As the young man walked away, he wondered if the fisherman would go home and tell his wife about the American at the pier tonight, someone who seemed so well removed from their reasons for concern.

No, he won’t say anything about that–this first day of the new war, he thought.  So now they have to learn about not saying anything that makes this worse for each other.  But those who have chosen this new war say–fortunately–that it will end very soon.