Big like the ocean

But one did not brood too long on the uncertainties of life and death when six bellies depended on a decent catch on any given day, and Pedro had blamed neither Domingo, himself or anyone else for the tragedy.  It was the will of God, and that was all there was to it.  They were simple folk, and were quick to accept the inevitable.
As for Clarissa, her daily vigils at the lagoon’s beach had become an unwavering ritual.  No one pressed her for her reasons, simply assuming that she’d get over Domingo’s death, and on with her lot in life.  The fact that this did not seem to be happening left her family nonplussed.  She was present for most meals and attended every service at the little fishing-village’s church.  She performed her arduous chores around the house and helped industriously with the mending of fishing nets and weekly scrubbing of the catamarans.  And yet, she was never entirely there; every single moment of respite from labor saw her gazing vacantly out at the eternally restless sea.  Sometimes she would wade out to where the small breakers washed over her knees, stare intently at the dolphins frolicking where the water turned deep and green, then silently return.
Under the circumstances, it did not seem unduly strange that she spent all of the night of every full moon at her accustomed spot on the little beach, immersed in her usual solitary reverie.  Or that she always wore her Sunday best on these occasions.