There was nothing in the small harbour. Leaking boats and drunken people. A strong scent of seaweed, tar and nubbe. The port had escaped the holiday tourism renovation and flashy boats. Time stood still here and not much had happened in the last thirty years. The fishing huts leaned against each other to be able to stand upright in an increasingly accelerating decay and the once beautiful paved quay was now filled with insensitive concrete where only the paving was visible here and there. A rusty posture that had once been a machine for launching boats towered rusty and twisted up over the harbor as a monument to a once active and successful time. There had obviously once been an active fishing but now lay broken yarn in piles with dirty buoys squeezed like dead fish sometimes tangled. Two older men sit on a bench in silence. Their eyes look out over the harbor from eyes that lie far into faces that have seen a lot of wind, water and strong drinks. They sit still with bodies that hurt. Not much happens when time stops.