The Old Man and the Sea

I often see the old man tinkering on his wooden fishing boat.

On clear days, there he is, sanding, painting or caulking away to his hearts content.

He knows the old names of the bays and coves, the local names. Names you won’t find on maps anymore, such as Bead Bay and Cannonball Bay.  The slaver that sunk still throws up ceramic trading beads during heavy seas. He can point out the shell middens along the shoreline and can name the shipwrecks along the coast, going back generations. His stories ignite my imagination and his tales of lost treasures make me want to go treasure hunting. He, however, is after a different treasure altogether.

“All my fishing friends have gone on to meet their Maker.” He says.

“There’s no-one left to help me with the boats.”

I awake one morning to a calm ocean and help the old man to launch his skip. We heave and strain, trying to coax the old boat to the waters edge.

“Don’t worry.” He says, noticing my concern.

“She’s much better once she’s in the water.”

We slide over the rocks, straining under our burden until finally we nudge her onto the beach and into the water. We jump onboard and he hands the oars and says:

“Take us out.”

 I quickly get the measure of the small boat. Fortunately we’re on an outgoing tide and quickly glide past the rocks protecting the small bay.

As I row out to sea and into the ocean swell, I’m aware of the city noise carrying across the water. Occasionally a helicopter flies past interrupting our peace.

Sometimes a truck groans heading up the hill. But more and more I become aware of the ocean around us. It is surprisingly active. We keep a watch for what the birds are doing, a sure telltale sign that fish are about. Dolphins and seals swim by and we even hear the loud exhale of a whale close by. 

We drop anchor and bait up our hooks. The swell tugs at our anchor chain, gently rocking the boat. I settle down expecting a long wait but the fish are active today and keep us busy.

As the Atlantic fog rolls in over the ocean, the old man tells me he likes to glide up to sunfish and give them a gentle tug on their fin. One day he did just that except, it wasn’t a sunfish fin he managed to tug, but the fin of a great white! Luckily he managed to stay aboard in the ensuing chaos and sheepishly made his was to shore.

Later that evening as we sit down to eat our catch of the day, I feel light headed as the room sways with an imaginary swell. My fingers are raw and my hands blistered. I’m sun burnt but I’ve never been this content.  It feels as if I’ve briefly stepped back in time and done things the good old way.

I Digress… is a reader supported publication. If you enjoyed the story and would like to support it; like it, share it with friends and colleagues or subscribe.