The loneliness of command

I stand upon the old Quay wall, my stationary command, my static ship, my voyageless craft; sat upon its landheld shore with course and bearing set, full ahead for Autumn, bound for Winter.
I look back at all the quiet houses sitting, sleeping, each with their own history, their own reasons, their characters, their tales to tell; once the homes of fishermen and sailors, familiar with these stones and steps and groaning of the shore, now undisturbed doors remain closed.
Less tourists embark now and remark upon the birds and gulls still picking and choosing at old discarded plastic bags, searching for pasties, wishing for fish. The boats that so recently fought and jostled for space beside the steps, for the queueing trippers and anglers, divers and camping site survivors, are now seen heading across the bay destined for the bar and if lucky, a fresh coat of anti-fouling.
I keep a compass corrected, weather eye upon approaching gales or lulls, watch keeping, waiting for the breaking seas; I keep a dogwatch for the night time passing ships on course for other shores unseen. This is Clovelly's Quay, the place I work, the place I live, the place I stand alone, the place I battle storms and cruise through calms, where I walk the well worn walls, my unchartered, uncharted dominion, where it's no good sitting on the rocks waiting for a mermaid to swim by.
Now I must make my heading known, I must write my passage plan, the place remains the same , the destination changes; our next port of call is the "The Clovelly Herring Festival," which is here on the Quay on the 16th of November, a time to celebrate the king of fishes, the silver darlings, to eat, to drink, to be happy and reflect. I'll be there selling fish, I hope you'll join me.