Just beyond the Irago ferry port is a concrete wall that projects out from the mainland, bending once at an angle that creates a mostly-enclosed area for the ferries and fishing boats. If the signs don't outright say 'Do not enter,' I'm fairly confident that they at least say 'Caution.' For although the wall is just wide enough not to be scary on a nice day, a high wind could be deadly for even those with good balance. Regardless, it appears to be a popular fishing spot.
Fishing, along with golf and bird-watching, have never interested me much because I lack the patience that they require. My father once took my brother and I out fishing, but what I remember most is my brother, in a characteristic bout of enthusiasm, showing me how to cast the line out. He swung the rod back over his shoulder and then forward onto the water, eyes widening and mouth forming an o as it slipped out of his hands at the last second, continuing its outward trajectory before finally sinking below the surface. There may have been some tears as a result, but after some tense, quiet minutes, my father succeeded in fishing it back out using his own pole. Between the three of us, I don't think any fish were caught that day, but I know that my brother was pleased to have the fishing pole back.
