Visitors weave in and out of Calvi as frequently as the wisps of salty sea air that blow by him, slapping against his face as he toils. With indelible traces of sand underneath his nails and bifocals pressed to his face, he works diligently to ready his lures. With his feet dangling off the side of the port and his concentration seemingly impervious to the endless footsteps only inches from his back, he presses on never once lifting his head to acknowledge anyone’s presence.
Despite the drudgery of his labors, he appears surprisingly content–moving his hands in rhythm with the languid movement of the port water beneath his feet. His hunched posture was the inevitable consequence of years positioned this way to work.
I imagined his family-a wife that kisses him goodbye each morning as he heads out for an arduous day, grown children whom he thinks of as the sun beats down on his frail, aging skin, and grandchildren whose innocence makes him long wistfully for simpler days. I pictured his ride home in the evenings to his village outside Calvi on a rusty old bicycle, through winding mountain roads alongside grazing goats – his wife greeting him at…
