II
An early work of short fiction.
A cadet grey catamaran crawled out from behind the point at the mouth of the harbor. The boy sat on the three feet of beach available during high tide, his toes clawing anxiously at the drying seaweed and small granite pebbles that had rolled along the ocean’s floor for many years. Turning to look up at the flood wall he saw his younger sister in a pair of hand-me-down cargo shorts and a blue and white striped T-shirt. A mop of dusty blonde hair covered her face. She looked menacing glaring down on him this way — a four-year-old more terrifying than god herself.
“Bring me a sand dollar.” The demand came soft, like the wooly flowers of Jerusalem Sage in their grandmother’s garden.
“We’ll see.”
“Or a sea cucumber. I would like a sea cucumber.” She jumped from the rocky barrier onto his back, wrapping her sandy feet around his waist.
“Have you ever seen a sea cucumber?”
“No.”
“They’re gross.”
“I want one,” she demanded, less tenderly. Before he could respond the little girl had scrambled over the storm surge barrier and was out of sight.
The catamaran was closer now. Its sails were the color of bone, the rigging running back and forth across the sheets like compound fractures. He still couldn’t see anyone on the decks, even if he squinted. “A ghost ship,” he joked to himself. A smile perched on his lips, ready to leap into the icy, tumultuous sea. The smile felt awkward, as out of place as the collared shirt on his back that his mother had pressed the previous night. Her tears had fallen intermittently on the ironing board, mixing with the steam.
The boy was afraid of the sea. On especially stormy nights he would lie awake, flinching at the sound of each wave breaking on the stones he was leaning against. He sat there, among the rock-weed and the horsetail kelp, wishing it would just draw him in. Then he could be done with it.
The catamaran had lowered her sails. Figures now flitted back and forth across the two hulls. The boy rose and gracefully scaled the surge barrier. A few minutes later he was back, carrying a faded powder blue duffle bag and a small Patagonia backpack. His mother stood on the back porch with a pack of Newports. She attempted to remain composed, heavily drawing smoke into her lungs while her fingers trembled. Her son was handsome in the white polo-style.
A dinghy had disembarked from the 70-foot catamaran and was skating towards the beach. The sea was flat, aside from the rhythmic tremors of the small boat’s overpowered motor. A man in khaki pants and a matching shirt balanced on the side of the dinghy. The boy sighed. His second-hand Sperry’s were off, their laces tied together around his neck. The pitch of the motor dropped to a deep purr, and the boy walked into the sea. The rocky shore dropped away beneath his feet. His toes buried themselves in the sand like Long Island hermit crabs. The water was lapping against his knees. The dinghy was silent, and the sea had turned to glass. The boy looked down at the rope floating in front of him. Following it to its root he found himself face to face with the man in the dinghy. He could read no emotion from the sun-drenched face and calloused hands. The man beckoned to the boy, but no response came.
His mind became as clear as the sea. Tossing both the duffle and the backpack onto the shore he strode forward towards the dinghy. With each step his shorts became the color of stained leather, and the rope drifted past him a few more feet. He was up to his neck now. The man in the dinghy watched unaffected. The boy was fully submerged, his feet uprooted from their place in the seafloor. He kicked out his legs and pulled himself through the water. He was no longer afraid of the sea.
He clambered up onto the deck of the Catamaran. Looking up, he saw an elderly man, worn by the sun and the wind, holding out a towel and a fresh shirt. The man from the dinghy returned, expertly lassoing one of the catamaran’s starboard cleats. He pulled himself aboard and secured the dinghy before sliding into the left hull’s cabin without a word.
“Sorry,” said the boy.
The old man who held the towel did not respond. The boy, still dripping, tentatively took the towel. He dried himself and slipped on the shirt that the old man held in his other hand.
“My shoes,” questioned the boy, despite knowing the answer.
“Won’t need them.”
The old man turned and entered the right hull’s cabin. The boy looked out across the bay that he had just traversed. Squinting, he could see his mother, a small black speck sitting on the storm wall. The sea had turned rough again.