Mercy

My father worked for many years as a welder, one of thousands of workers at the Port of Durban, South Africa’s busiest harbour. I remember he would take the family there on Sunday drives, and as a child I would look out the window and stare at the massive cranes, or the moored container ships, not quite understanding where I was.

The dry dock was often our main destination; on days that another ship arrived for repairs, there were typically dozens of people waiting for the water to be slowly drained to expose the hull. As the water level dropped, it would become increasingly choppy and active from the fish struggling to escape their unexpected prison. People would swoop in and make off with a hoard of free seafood, as fresh as one could ever get it. I shudder to think how contaminated the fish must of been, but those were different times, and I’m not certain it was really of any concern back then.

I would love to have that kind of access to the Port of Oakland.