The night's very restless inyanga is already by the pier, eyes shut, pacing and murmuring the 11th commandment of a new faith. The beer-stained guards have exhausted their shift umpiring since dawn the eternal struggle between mynahs and crows by the rubbish bins. The fishermen, past their third bottle of cane dream of grunters, reek of shad and complain that no ship was hooked even though they cast their lines far in the far gardens of foam. And there: the sea's eyelid full of fins the factory sirens quiet at last the hooligan moon peers over the Bluff and the horses of the deep get restless.