Summary
A nameless stevedore, half-poet, half-scrapper, drifts through a fog-choked Atlantic port where gulls screech like broken phonographs and every tavern door exhales brine. He hauls crates by dawn, carves erotic mermaids into pilings by dusk, and keeps a blood-flecked diary addressed to the sea itself. One copper dusk he rescues a woman tangled in kelp and sailor superstition—she claims to be the ocean’s exiled bride, memories braided with salt, skin smelling of low tide. Their nights become a fever of phosphorescent sex, shared rum, and stories of abyssal trenches that sing lullabies to drowned navies. When the port’s cannery baron decides to harvest a reef of bioluminescent squids—thereby extinguishing the bay’s last living constellations—the lovers ignite a clumsy revolt among the dock rats, bar girls, and a one-eyed preacher who believes God burps through conch shells. Betrayals splash like bilge water: the woman trades her coral crown for a ticket on a luxury liner, the stevedore chains himself to the cannery gates, and the tide keeps chewing the shoreline like an indifferent god. In the final reel, dawn finds him alone on a jetty, diary pages swirling like wounded gulls, while the liner’s foghorn answers the sea’s unmade bed with a single, cavernous moan.
Synopsis
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