It’s morning in Agonda, and they are out on the prowl, their flamboyant fleet of ferries ready to raid the roughish waters of the south. An intruder to their world, I walk by the shore bare feet, intimidated as I leave the comfort of familiarity behind. Not a usual palace of sightseeing this is—a hidden paradise largely unknown to the urban world.
The fishermen leave for the hunt and the beach is secluded now, except for a few late risers who are still prepping up for the move. Left behind are the smidgeons of their pursuit—earthen pots, fishing nets, coconut choirs, barnacle shells. I met some children wetting their feet in waters behind the rock—the rhythm of the waves is joy to their experience, the ripples add to their laughter. I move on.
Further away from the village, the air smells different. The stench of amassed fishes is replaced by the genuine scent of the ocean, and the sound of foraging crows, by the covert melodies of mysterious birds in the surrounding woods. I am on a cliff, and down is the ocean, noisy as always, glistening under the warming sun. Is this the dead end?