Frantz Hauptmann opens the heavy oaken door leading out to the crumbling concrete dock, glances left and right, and not seeing any people or boats, slowly walks out to the tip of the dock, nursing his aching 85 year old limbs.
When he reaches the lookout spot at the end of the dock, he leans his waist against the rusty iron pipe railing, slowly reaching for the binoculars hanging from his neck.
Gently grasping the binoculars with his arthritis riddled hands, he slowly scans the horizon of the narrow Chilean fjord, carefully scanning the steep walls of the fjord for any possible activity.
Not seeing any activity, he places the looking glasses back onto his chest, takes in a few breaths of the fresh, clean air, then starts heading back to the oaken door leading back into the mountain side.
