At dawn, two fishermen waded into Kuakata’s tide, their nets trailing like whispers across the water. The sea, still half-asleep, offered its silver secrets slowly. Each pull of the net was a prayer, each ripple a memory in the hush between waves, horizon and labour blurred—men and ocean bound by rhythm, salt, and survival. Where nets met the horizon, stories were caught alongside fish, shimmering with quiet dignity.