The story
The shower softened every sound except the water falling from the old pilings. Each one had its own rhythm. I kept the skiff in the sheltered part of the fictional basin and watched the bright workshop windows stretch into long reflections.
A small bass surfaced where two of those reflections crossed. It was gone before I had lifted the rod. I stayed to watch the pattern return. The harbour had become a machine with no obvious purpose, repeating a motion simply because the weather asked it to.
When the rain eased, I wrote a short entry with no measurements. Steel reach, blue hour, plenty of water. It was a poor engineering report and a perfectly adequate description of the evening.
Not every observation has to become a specification.