The sun hung low in the sky, a molten coin balanced on the edge of the Pacific horizon. Dante sat in the stern of his weathered fourteen-foot skiff, legs stretched out, one hand loosely gripping the tiller while the other cradled a cold beer balanced on his thigh. The outboard motor was off—he'd killed it an hour ago, letting the gentle swell carry him farther from shore. No hurry. No schedule. Just the slap of water against fiberglass, the cry of gulls wheeling overhead, and the soft creak of his rod holder whenever a baitfish tugged at the line.
He inhaled deeply. Salt air, diesel residue from the engine, and the faint sweetness of the kelp beds drifting by. Perfect.
Dante was gainfully self-employed as a freelance graphic designer who specialized in logos nobody ever remembered. He lived in a one-bedroom apartment above a taco shop in San Diego, paid his bills on time, and spoke to almost no one unless it involved confirming a revision or ordering carnitas. People called him quiet. He preferred "selective."
Fishing was the one place where selective felt like freedom.
He'd started young, tagging along with his grandfather on summer mornings in Morro Bay. The old man had taught him knots, tides, and the virtue of silence. "Fish don't care how loud your life is," Grandpa used to say, spitting tobacco juice over the rail. "They only care if you're patient."
Dante had taken that lesson and run with it. College, first job, marriage—all of it had felt like noise. Meetings, deadlines, arguments about whose turn it was to load the dishwasher. The city pressed in from every side: sirens at 3 a.m., neighbors screaming through thin walls, endless notifications pinging on his phone. He'd wake up some mornings with his jaw clenched so tight it ached.
But out here, twenty miles offshore on a weekday when every sensible person was chained to a desk, the noise stopped.
He checked his line. The sardine bait was still lively, trailing thirty feet down in the blue. He'd already caught and released two calico bass and one fat sand dab he'd kept for dinner. Enough for a man who only ever cooked for himself.
Dante leaned back against the gunwale and closed his eyes for a moment. The sun warmed his face; the boat rocked like a cradle. He smiled without meaning to.
This was it. The whole point.
No emails. No passive-aggressive texts from clients who wanted "something more modern but also timeless." No dating apps asking him to swipe on women who listed "brunch" and "travel" as personality traits. Just him, the ocean, and the possibility that something down there in the dark might decide to bite.
He opened his eyes and scanned the horizon. Flat calm in every direction, the water glassy except for the long, lazy swells rolling in from the west. A light breeze out of the northwest—barely five knots. The marine forecast had called it "ideal conditions." Dante didn't trust forecasts; he trusted what he could see and feel. And right now, everything felt perfect.
He took a sip of beer. Warm already, but he didn't mind. He set the can in the cup holder and reached for the rod, giving the reel a slow turn to check for tension. Nothing yet. That was fine. Waiting was half the pleasure.
His mind drifted again, the way it always did out here.
He remembered the day he'd walked out of his marriage. Sarah had been yelling about commitment, about building a life together. He'd stood in the kitchen holding a coffee mug, listening to her voice rise and rise until it felt like the walls were vibrating. He hadn't yelled back. He'd just said, "I think I need quiet," set the mug in the sink, and left. She'd kept the dog. He'd kept the boat.
Best trade he'd ever made.
Out here, nobody asked him to be anything other than present. The ocean didn't care if he was ambitious or sociable or good at small talk. It only asked that he respect it. And he did. Life jacket always within reach, EPIRB charged, ditch bag stocked. He wasn't reckless. He just wanted distance.
A faint tug on the line snapped him back. He lifted the rod tip gently—probably just the bait swimming. He let it sit. Patience.
He thought about the apartment waiting for him back on shore. A stack of invoices on the desk, a half-finished logo for some crypto startup that would probably fold in six months. Tomorrow he'd sit in front of the computer again, headphones on to block the neighbor's reggaeton. But tonight he'd grill that sand dab with lemon and butter, open another beer, and fall asleep to the sound of distant traffic that suddenly didn't feel so bad.
The swell changed subtly beneath him. He noticed it the way you notice a shift in someone's tone mid-conversation. The boat rose a little higher, lingered, then dropped a little farther. He glanced west.
The horizon looked… different. A thin dark line, almost like a smudge on glass. He frowned. The swells were still long and lazy, but the intervals felt shorter now. He checked his watch: 4:47 p.m. Sun wouldn't set for another two hours.
Probably just a pressure change. Happens sometimes.
He reeled in slowly, checking the bait. Still good. He cast again, letting the line arc out in a clean loop before settling. The plunk of the weight hitting water sounded louder than usual.
Another swell lifted the boat. This one had a sharper edge to it. Dante sat up straighter, scanning 360 degrees. Nothing but empty ocean and that strange dark line growing thicker in the west.
He reached for the throttle, thumb hovering. No need to panic. He'd run in if it got sporty. Plenty of daylight left.
Then he saw it.
Far off, maybe three miles, a wall of water rose out of nowhere. Not a breaker—something deeper, heavier. A rogue. It marched toward him with impossible speed, its face steep and glassy, white foam streaming from the crest like smoke.
Dante's stomach dropped.
He yanked the starter cord. The engine coughed but didn't catch. Again—harder. It sputtered, caught, roared. He slammed the throttle forward and spun the bow southeast, toward shallower water and the distant coast.
The skiff surged, but too slow. The rogue was already closer, towering now, a moving cliff of green-black water. He had time for one clear thought: This isn't supposed to happen on a day like this.
The wave hit.
It lifted the boat vertically, nose pointed at the sky. For a frozen second Dante hung weightless, staring straight up at the crest curling over him. Then the world flipped.
Cold.
The impact drove the air from his lungs. He tumbled, disoriented, boat and sky and water all mixed into a churning roar. Something hard struck his ribs—the console, maybe. Pain flared, then dulled under the shock of cold.
He clawed upward, following the bubbles. His life jacket inflated with a hiss, dragging him toward the surface. He broke through gasping, coughing salt.
The boat was gone. Just scattered debris bobbing around him: cooler, seat cushion, his rod floating like a broken toy.
Another wave—smaller but still huge—lifted and dropped him. He rode it, kicking to stay on top. The sun was still there, absurdly bright, glinting off the water.
His legs felt heavy. Cold seeping in fast. He tried to take stock: ribs bruised, maybe cracked. No blood in the water that he could see. The coast was a faint smudge on the horizon—too far.
He floated on his back, conserving energy. The sea had calmed again, as if nothing had happened. Gentle swells, blue sky. Cruel indifference.
Dante laughed once, a short bark that hurt his ribs. Of course. The one day he lets himself believe the world might leave him alone.
He thought of the sand dab still on ice in the cooler, somewhere beneath him now. Thought of the apartment, the invoices, the quiet evening he'd planned. All of it suddenly small and far away.
The cold deepened. His limbs grew sluggish. He watched a gull circle overhead, curious but not hopeful.
He wasn't afraid, exactly. More like… disappointed. He'd finally found the one place where life made sense, and now it was taking him.
The water closed over his face. He didn't fight it.
As darkness folded in, warm now instead of cold, a single clear thought floated up like a bubble:
At least I died doing what I loved.