The fish factory's stack spits thick steam, smothering air with smoke and the stink of baking snapper and salt water herring. Packing machines stifle waves spilling, painting sand smooth. Gulls splash for dogfish or starve or kill each other hovering above, waiting for disposal. I pull a half pint from my lunch bag. A tugboat guides a crab ship to port, preparing for a new shift. Men gather around the factory door, soundless - ragged flannels concealing pale bodies burning from boiler heat, stitched hands and scabbed fingers fresh from paring tables. Skin soaked with the stench of rot that never goes away. I sip whiskey as the morning horn screams. Night men file out defeated, bodies reflecting gold in the sun. My pop walks among them in slow rhythm with the machine beat, his face stone from sneaking booze at break time, eyes tired. When he reaches me he says nothing, just takes me in his arms - wet from his skin cleanses me, sweet liquor on his breath. Then he moves toward home as I follow the single line straight past the time clock, into the ocean.