To Sea

  When the snow faded from the mounds piled up on the sides of roads, when the bare trees began to bud and when the song of native birds returned to the shoreline, winter had succumbed to spring.

  Gulls swamped the skies for the early spring catch. But all of their calls still came up empty. The rare carcass washing up ashore would find its way into the stomachs of the land predators who patrolled the shorelines. Raccoons, seldom, but mostly wild dogs preyed. These mutts would storm the shore from behind the dunes, grabbing the soft salty meat before the birds could swoop down at it. The gulls were stuck to circling around the break of waves. Diving down for food often, yet, unsuccessful—winding up with beaks filled with the saltwater of the sea.

  The drab browned land started to green. Mother Nature’s fertility pinched at the nose with stinging pollens mixed with the salt misted air. The oaks began to fill out their brown branches with light green buds on the verge of filling out into dense blankets. Intermittent pines poked between the oaks, spreading their long needles into the grasp of the waxy oak leaves to be.

  Jon stood with his shins against the smooth porcelain lip of the toilet. He glanced to the corner of the room looking through the small water-stained window behind him to watch the spring unfold. He shook off the last bits of urine and he gripped the windows ledge. An old man with his dog jogged along the upper edges of the shore, avoiding the small break of waves. The dog ran ahead, dancing in circles on the wind rippled sand as he waited for his silver haired master.

  The old man rested his tired head low between his shoulders. He fought his eyes to glean up at his dog. But the man was engaged in a battle to be lost, and often, he dropped his eyes back down to the sand.

  Jon licked his lips, bringing a few of his long whiskers back into his mouth. He chewed on the hairs and he watched the old man stumble through the sand for a short while. Then Jon watched the dog. It ran in circles, kicking sand up all around. The dog wore a short brown coat. Mid-sized. “A mix between the neighbor’s lab and a dirty stray,” Jon thought, laughing—eyeing the older man who tried to pick up his pace to that of the dog. “The man is useless. I just wonder if he knows it,” Jon said. “Poor bastard, doesn’t even know his own worthlessness.” Jon fetched his eyes back up to the dog ahead, watching the mutt roll on the sand. The dog’s legs scratched up at the air above. Then the dog dug his paws into the spongy sand, shaking the loose grains from his fur before he dashed under an oncoming wave crashing atop him. The old man stopped in his stuttered steps. He waved his fist at the dog as it reemerged from the sea. Jon leaned his ear to the pane. He could hear the man’s raspy voice cry between the barks of his mutt, the howl of the gulls and the whisper of the waves.

  Jon wiped his eyes. He shook off his thoughts. Then he dressed himself quickly, thereafter, and he filled the kettle with water in the kitchen. He had managed to avoid the awkward words of morning salutations with his wife. A distant good-morning nod was all that was shared. Elea’s legs were still under the covers. Her eyes fixed to the television at the foot of the bed. A pad with plot notes of the show in her lap. “In case they call me for the big prize,” she’d say. “In case they ask me what happened the day before. I’m ready. I’ll know.”

  Jon turned the gas on. He watched the flame climb up along the kettle. Then he walked to the backdoor, unlatching the lock, kicking the metal door open with his boot. He threw his shoulders back, opening up his lungs—breathing in the warm salt up his nostrils. The sun shined off the thick clouds tumbling in off the sea. The bell atop the steeple in the church rang out in a faint echo. The long tones were muffled—softer than in the winter’s months when the trees that separated the Brand cottage from the Greek Orthodox Church were bare. But now, the oaks, towering and beginning to green, filled the space in-between. Jon pulled his beard to a single point at his chin. His tongue smacked his brittle lips with moisture.

  The fisherman stood, watching the water for the morning. Barry had patted Jon’s back good-morning and goodbye all in one swipe. Elea reported that her breakfast date with Casey had been canceled. “His wife must still be in town,” he thought. His eyes never breaking their stare out to the sea—out to the distant horizon. A single nod to Barry and then to Elea was all it took for them to continue with their daily routines.

  Jon threw his feet out to a wide stance. He toyed with the sand in front of him with the steel-tips of his boots. All the while, his stare stayed fixed to the gray clouds merging with the gray ocean out in the now shallow distance.

  Jon unlatched the car key from his belt loop, tucking it into his leathery palm as he marched to the sedan. He slipped his forefinger through the small key loop to his second knuckle before his thin finger gauged too thick. He tried on to his middle finger, unsuccessful. Then lastly, onto the pinky, where the metal slid to the base of his finger. He smiled slightly, spinning the key ring around his pinky.

  The clouds moved in over the house. Elea stretched her head out of the window and she watched her husband slip out of the drive. Her lean shoulders shrugged with her palms faced open to the heavens. Jon turned his head quickly, ignoring his wife’s plea for reasoning—driving down the road.

  The house had been far out of sight for several blocks before Jon turned the radio over to the classical music station. He lowered the volume to match the sedan’s low hum as he putted the four-cylinder slowly. He looked up and he watched the light gray clouds turn to charcoal. He reached over, opening the glove box, pulling out a worn box of cigarettes. He flipped the carton open, slipping a stick between his fingers, tossing the end over a match flame.

  The pack had belonged to Gus, who had left them in Jon’s car in the beginning of the season two years back. Gus was a hardy man. Tall and thick. Jon and Gus had gone out for drinks the night he had left the tobacco in the car. They went out to celebrate Gus’s move down to a house-boat anchored along the Gulf of Mexico. Jon could remember Gus’s clean shaven face. The rolls of fat stored under the old man’s chin. The sharp eyes he wore when he took a drag of his cigarette.

  Jon rolled the window down a crack. He shifted his cigarette between his middle and ring fingers. The way Gus had done. Jon gently rested his lips on the filter, piercing his eyes in attempt to imitate Gus’s inhalation. Jon stopped at a stop sign and he looked at himself in the rear view mirror. He hung the cigarette loosely out of the left corner of his mouth. He cut slits in his eyes. His pupils widened with the loss of light brought in by clouds tumbling in off the coast—over the car. He blinked his eyes hard. Then he tossed the half smoked cigarette out of the window. “Shit hurts,” he coughed. “How do people smoke these damned things.” He folded a stick of gum into his mouth and he eased the gas pedal down, turning the car onto the highway.

  He drove forty minutes to the west which brought him along the south shore. The clouds seemed to follow Jon—but never did a drop of rain fall for the duration of the drive.

  A small green drawbridge came into sight on the horizon. Jon slowed. Then he stopped the car on the bridge. He watched the gray of clouds still the sky. The gray reflection rippled loosely into the bay. “I want to go back,” he said. “I need to cast the nets. I must rake in the sea.” He exited the car, leaving the door to swing with the wind rushing down the bay. “No longer for the profits. Oh no. But for the kiss of the sea. The salt water on my lips. The love of all things lost—the once was—and the never will be again.” Jon leaned over the green rail, watching his face move in the waves of the gray bay.

  There was a vast parking lot not far ahead that spanned over a half mile long and quarter mile wide. Emptied. Jon got back in the car, driving over the bridge, parking to the right of the lot.

  He stood beside his car and he stared back at the green bridge. He tapped his fingers from pinky to index finger on the roof of the car ‘til he broke his stare and he made for a tear in the fence and down a sandy path bey
ond the torn chain-links.

  The clouds warped to an all encompassing black in the sky. There was no longer any distinctive light passing through to the land. Jon held his jacket tight to his body. He zipped it up to his neck in defense against the cold breeze rushing in off the sea. The air was heavy—filled with a rich scent of budding flowers poking through the sand aside the thick brush. His mind rushed with the memories of his past. The luscious smell of a shoreline spring. The summers spent lazily on the beach where large waves curled with surfers pouring out of the ends. He saw the images of short beach trunks on men and body enclosing one-pieces on the women. He saw the white-nosed lifeguards perched on high mounds of sand—up high in their white wicker chairs. Jon shook his head, rolling his eyes back into a reality where he saw a precession of five to six footers crashing hard against the white sand. There was a group of twenty or so gulls bobbing over the harsh crests before disappearing into the deep troughs out in the distance. A few stray gulls wobbled nearby, pecking for food along the outermost stretches of the ocean.

  Jon looked back down the path in which he came. He remembered it being a lot farther from the shore in his past. He had not been to this beach since he was a child with his father. But he knew he had not created the length of the path to be longer in his distant memory. “Erosions that bad,” he scoffed. “The beach is a quarter of what it once was.” He squeezed his face tight and it came upon him a sudden feeling of enclosure. He felt as if the dunes had squeezed him to the shore. As if the dunes were pushing him into the water. Jon shook nervously and he stepped back from the ocean a bit. A feeling of loneliness rushed through him. He looked down the beach. He was the sole human on the shore and he felt he was the reason why no one was there. “I’m toxic,” he thought. “Look how I drive all others away.” He looked out at the dark horizon and he felt the world was left to him. Everyone who had cared about him, no longer cared. “Not even Barry. Not even my own son or my own wife lay their faith in me.” He dropped to one knee. Then he settled his bottom onto the sand. He shifted his buttocks from left to right, creating a seat as he watched the stray gulls pass, lightly squawking at him as they wobbled by.

  He felt alone. But after a moment, he looked up and he could see the group of gulls floating on the ocean. He smiled, mumbling, “My sea,” loud enough for a passing gull to turn its head at Jon. “It cannot be too late for me. It just can’t,” he said with passion. But the excitement soon faded. His lips turned to stone. “It is too late. God-damned sea is empty. It’s closed up.” He rushed his fingers deep into the sand at his sides. A sharp squall sprawled from the ocean, kissing his ears. He looked up and he could see the group of gulls in the distance flurry upward—flying farther out to sea—casting large specks of white across the charcoal skyline.

  Jon turned his head from the spray of the sea. He now stared back at the dunes as he brushed his sandy hands on his pants. He watched the cattails bend with the wind until his eyes caught a shadow in the distance distorted from the whipping sand. It moved closer, trotting along the shoreline.

  The winds died down some. The sand fell. And the shadow turned into a man. He grew appendages. And soon a flop of snowy white hair sat on his head. A green jacket then appeared, covering a denim vest. He jogged with his feet in front of his torso. Jon began to see sand kicking up from the old man’s heavy steps.

  Jon could then see the whites in the man’s eyes. The fisherman nodded, smiling at his elder. Then Jon quickly looked out at the horizon. But when the man came to pass, he stopped his fumbling steps and he held his hands to his knees.

  “Hey there, fella,” the man said between huffs of breath. “Looks like we’re going to have some amount of rain in a bit, eh?” The man lifted his head to Jon, keeping his hands on his knees. The old man’s face cast deep wrinkles spreading like spilled ink on his peachy face.

  “Looks like it, sir.” The wind began to pick up velocity. The sand began to sweep up against them again.

  “Gee, and this wind. Where is it all coming from? It was sunny not more than an hour ago. And now all this? It sure makes a man wonder what He is thinking up there all day.” The man pointed to the dark low clouds overhead. “He must be angry with someone. And it sure ain’t me.” The man laughed. Then he stopped and he cast a set of stern eyes onto Jon. “So, what did you do to Him?”

  Jon broke his stare from the sea. He looked up into the old man’s eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Mean by what? The weather’s pretty bad. That’s all.”

  “No. That last part. What did you mean by it?” Jon felt his muscles hug his bones.

  “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t do anything to anger Him. He is all loving, you know.” The man regained his breath before stepping closer to Jon, dangling his arm around Jon’s shoulder.

  “Then why did he summon Abraham to sacrifice Isaac?” Jon ridiculed. “Abraham was willing to sacrifice his only son. Did you know that?” Jon shifted his weight, forcing the old man’s arm off of his shoulder.

  “‘It is through Isaac that your offspring will be reckoned,’ says the Book of Hebrew. Life was given through Isaac as an offering. Total faith, my son. No one died and yet life was born from the sacrifice of the Son of Man. We live eternally through faith.” The old man hugged Jon tight, kissing the side of his beard. “So, what is it, son, that you have done to anger our Father?”

  Jon stepped back from the man, sneering at him. “What makes you so sure I angered him? What makes you so sure it wasn’t you? Or anyone else for that matter?”

  “I know a little.” The old man unzipped his jacket, revealing a thick band of white plastic tucked into the collar of a black shirt. “The anger towards your God is strong in your voice, son. Let it out. He only loves you.”

  Jon looked up at the clouds. A drop of a rain splashed down on his glasses.

  The gulls had returned to the waves, bobbing over the crests and falling into the troughs. Jon looked back out to sea. Back to the gulls.

  “What denomination are you, Padre?”

  “The denomination of Love,” he answered quickly. “It does not matter to you, my son. I speak in all languages. All denominations to Him. Be not afraid.”

  Jon ran his fingers through his beard. He tucked the ends under his neck. “Padre, I am not a church-going man,” he said. “But I feel the weight of His power on me greatly. I feel as if I am alone. I feel as if I am the only one who can make the fish return for my family—for my community. I have strong urges that I am the Abraham. That I must sacrifice myself. Not my son. But myself to my father—the great vast blue—to sea.” Jon looked out at the waves pressing with the wind. “He had given me life until my greed took that life away and now I am dead. Or dying. The sea had once spoken to me, fed me, and provided for my family. But now it is silent.” Jon looked into the priest’s sagging eyes that waned from the strong salty wind. “The sea is my maker, Padre. And I am just man. Flawed. I took advantage of His grace and now I must sacrifice myself for the reckoning of my offspring.” Jon watched a lightning bolt cut the sky over the sea. Then he looked back to the dark horizon. “I cannot rely on my offspring to save me. I must save him. I must save the sea.”

  The priest zipped his jacket back up over his collar. He picked up a flat rock the size of his palm. Then he skipped it over a wave already breaking. “You see that sand there?” The priest pointed to the white grains tumbling under the water. “Those grains once saw sunlight. Absorbed the warm sun for hours. And then a number of events occurred. First, the wind drove the grains this way and that. Then, a passerby collected a few grains on his or her feet and dropped them closer to the shoreline. And as the tide moved in, the waves began to grab the sand. Swallow them. But this is only done when it is their time. And when the water washes away the old, in comes the new. Her pulse pushes new grains to the shore, out from under the cold d
ark sea. Out into the warm bright sun.” The priest looked over at Jon who drew a puzzled looked across his face. “Look, my son, I am not a crazy old man, although you may think I am. Think of it like this.” The priest bent over, grabbing a fist full of sand. “Here, open your hands.”

  Jon obeyed and the priest dumped the wet sand into Jon’s hands.

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Just hear me out.” The priest wiped away a significant amount of sand from Jon’s hands. Then the priest pushed the grains deep into Jon’s palm. “Look there,” the old man said. “You see the grains? You see the single grains?”

  Jon nodded, staring into his hands.

  “This one. This one is you.” He pointed to about a thousand grains at once, but seemingly stared at one. “And this one is me,” he said with his pointed finger slightly to the right of the grain representation of Jon.

  Jon nodded.

  The priest swirled his finger in Jon’s sand-filled hand. “We are but one grain in this vast sandy beach. And when it is your time, you will make it closer to the shoreline. And you too will be swallowed by the sea. But that time is not yet.” The old man leaned in, kissing Jon’s beard again—hugging him briefly. “It is not even close to your time. So enjoy the sun and absorb all the rays that you can before you get old like me.” The old man patted Jon’s back. Then the priest crouched over, hugging his knees into his chest, letting out a heavy sigh. “Okay, son, I need to get on my way. The sun isn’t going to come out today, that’s for sure. I need to make it back home before the cold rain comes.” He frowned. “And then I’d catch a cold.”

  Jon’s mouth hung open. Unable to comprise even the simplest of sentences. His body drooped forward towards the ocean. He then broke his silent stare and he looked over to the priest who had already started back down the beach. “Nice to meet you, Padre,” he shouted. “And thank you for the talk.” But Jon had not been thankful. No amount of His men could help Jon or sway his thoughts. Jon knew the sea was his Father. Not some deity held high above the clouds—some all loving thing. For Jon, the sea took vengeance—soothing those who sacrificed in the end. Something the priest, surely, knew nothing of.

  The sea could be reasoned with. “The man in the clouds is ominous,” Jon thought. “False.” He looked back down at the sand. He tried to gather his thoughts into some sort of emotion. But he felt exhausted. Weak. His face was stern. Neither happy—nor sad. He looked back up at the priest to try and produce a false smile in his direction. But the old man had jogged off. He was already beginning to grow back into the shadowy figure of before.

  Jon swallowed hard and he got up to his feet. He stepped his heavy boots into the foam of the receding tide. A rush of cold water sunk into his socks. “Not today,” he thought. “Too soon.” He turned to the dunes and he began to walk up the beach—back through the sway of cattails—back between the low lying flowers in the bayberry brush.

 

  CHAPTER 7