A breeze whirls between thin birch trees and crawls through the weaves of my white blouse. I wade through outreaching pine branches and follow the evening summer sun beyond the forest.
The sun sets high over the horizon as I step onto concrete. I walk towards a black steel railing running along an old fishing harbour. The wind chills my skin. I step on the ledge and lean on the railing pressing heat into my waist. I look below into the basin of deep blue seawater. Cruisers, bow riders, and consoles tilt from side to side in the waves.
Baseball caps and shady opaque sunglasses. Dark red wine bottles and long white cigarettes. Black charred knees and grey fishnets. I lift my hand to my brow and notice a smaller cabin cruiser by the mouth of the harbour.
I squint to read the words in yellow cursive on a sign over the cabin. The best days are spent by the sea—The Jacobsons.
A man reels in his fishing rod. He mumbles with a cigarette clamped between his lips. Grey curly hair spills from the sides of his Blue Jays baseball cap and meets the line of hair under his chin. The man next to him drops his fishing pole and they both ease a flopping white bass onto the boat.
The two men gut the bass, whistle, and puff their cigarettes while silver-scaled creatures circle, tug, and flee from the bait scattered in the water below.
I dig into my red sling bag filled with maps, pamphlets, and historical brochures. I flip aside Kent Wilkens’ book Georgian Bay Sunsets. Earlier today, I explored Kent Wilkens’ art gallery and swooned over local art from Tobermory’s watercolour and oil paint masters.
I walk along the rest of the paved walkway. The Blue Heron docks in the Tobermory Harbour ahead. Tourists stumble down from the steps dangling digital cameras from their wrists.
I slow down along the sidewalk near the dock tracing my fingertips over the end of the black railing. I hear waves lapping against the creaking dock. The Blue Heron’s motor thrashes water underneath its metal body. The engine roars and the ship trembles. The cabin casts a shadow over me and I disappear under its shade. Inside the cabin, ushers in black suits and servicemen in white aprons dart in and out of entrances carrying trays, serviettes, and freshly pressed towels.
Outside the ship, tourists sprint from the long wooden ticket booth on my left to file up between two heavy blue velvet ropes on my right. The velvet ropes mark an area reserved for Blue Heron ticket-holders only. The red digital letters next to the customer service window blink Blue Heron Sunset Cruise—sold out.
The bystanders next to me huddle around the port and click their cameras, sending flashes of light against the Blue Heron’s navy blue boards. On the dock, children climb over resin anchors and slide down their smooth arches. Elderly couples gather on benches and share tired smiles. The setting sun casts their long slender silhouettes on the concrete sidewalk.
As I walk along the dock, I pass benches overflowing with strangers. A small boy rests his head on his mother’s lap next to an elderly woman who snores in her seat. Beside them, a young couple exchange glances and lean in for a kiss. The collection of waves lapping, cameras clicking, and tender voices lingers behind me. Smooth jazz music muffles the sounds as I approach some outdoor speakers.
On my left, I near the patio of a restaurant, the Sunken Ship. Lawn chairs scrape against the concrete floor and thick beer glasses clank into each other over the floppy plastic tables. I pass by faces reflecting the golden colours of the sunset and platters covered with fresh fish tacos and fries. Laughter booms and yellow flames rise high from the outdoor grill burning charred smoke that spirals upward into the sky. A waft of the steakhouse air trickles over my lips and I taste the sizzling white bass basting on the grill.
As the air clears, I near a long empty bench where a man hunches over his hands. A navy blue raincoat is draped over his bony shoulders. A sweat-stained muscle shirt peeks through his worn-out cloak and grey corduroy pants hang loose from his legs. The tongue of his dark, tattered boots sprawls away from his dirty grey socks.
The man tucks a strand of peppered hair behind his ear. His cheeks burn crimson like aged leather. His earlobes hang loose from his face. His shoulders rise and truncate his neck. His eyes crinkle and his lips part. The man grunts.
He clutches a black leather-bound journal to his chest and coughs into his fist. Adults pull their children close as they pass. The man presses tears away from his eyes.
The harbourfront man tips his journal open just enough to slide the tip of his pen inside without disrupting the spine. I watch as he slices three straight dark inky lines across an unfinished sentence. He lifts the pen, steadies his hand down the next line, and reunites the ink and the paper.
A horn wails steadily in the distance. The Blue Heron, now the size of a toy boat, builds waves along the Tobermory harbour, nudging idle boats aside. The ship’s starboard side faces the setting sun and I find myself squinting as the vast ship’s navy blue boards shrink smaller and smaller into the horizon.
I glance over my shoulder. The harbourfront man swipes his finger over his tongue, plunges his finger toward the top corner of the page, and then crinkles the paper aside. He cradles the black leather journal on his left knee, nods subtly, then adjusts his position on the bench. The man eases the pen back to the paper and stains the crisp white page with fresh ink. I smile.
As I walk past the man’s hunched figure I hope to glimpse a sentence, a word, a title. Any hint that would reveal more of his story. My smile softens.
The curve of his letters.
The style of his cursive.
The thickness of the pen’s ink.
The journal’s pages flap against the wind from the written side, flashing lines of words to the people passing by.
Birds chirp above us and flee to rest in their nests. As I approach the parking lot, car doors shut, wheels turn and engines rev away.
I focus on the image of the man; the furrows between his eyebrows, the wrinkles in his pensive lips, the kinks in his withered clothes, the threads in his tattered boots, the cracks in his hands and the lines in his journal. As I fish for the keys in my bag, sliding aside worn-out brochures, images, and souvenirs, I imagine what his life has been like. I imagine crewmen, visiting ships, and sights around the Flowerpot Islands that have yet to be discovered. I wonder whether the harbourfront man is a local or a visitor. A writer or a thinker. A hero, or not.
I trace my sight back toward the crowds of people as they watch the tip of the Blue Heron fade into the shoreline.
Fighting Noise
Jodelle Faye DeJesus