On a broad flat of glistening silt near the Tomaga estuary, Samuel Beckett stood ankle-deep in grey mud, his heavy coat brushing the ooze. A few paces away, Mark Twain squatted on an upturned kerosene tin, busily untangling a length of tarred trot-line that was wrapped around a rusty tin billy.

“We missed the tide, Sam,” Twain drawled, not looking up from a stubborn overhand knot. “Which is always unfortunate when you’re aiming for twenty pounds of flathead before sundown. I knew men who fired up the boilers, cursed the pilot, and sold tickets to the sinking.”

Beckett stared down at his half-submerged boot.

“Return tickets?”

Twain paused, squinting across the flats with a dry grin. “Well, now, that would depend entirely on whether the passengers preferred a dry berth or an extended view of the channel. Where’s the bait?”

“There are no worms.”

“We’ll find some.”

“Then we are waiting.”

Twain stood up, dusted silt from his trousers, and surveyed the empty, leaden reach of the estuary where the grey water met the low banksia fringe. A solitary mud-crab scuttled sideways across a patch of exposed weed, waving a single, indignant claw.

“There’s a local now,” Twain said, pointing. “And by the look of him, he’s cussing us out in three different dialects.”

“You are doing his talking.”

Twain laughed, stepping forward onto the slick surface of the flat to test the line. He took three purposeful strides toward the water. On the fourth, his right boot stayed firmly in the mud.

Twain wobbled, caught his balance with a sharp wave of his arms, and looked down at the gray suction holding him fast.

Beckett looked slowly across the mud.

“Any sensible pilot would consult the chart.”

Twain grinned, wrenching his heel upward with a wet, sucking sound. “I’m not piloting, Sam. I’m making soundings.”

They stood side by side. The tangled trot-line lay unbaited between them in the silt.