We want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a well needed Happy New year.
As you know, this is mainly a research and travel blog, but this year, on Christmas Eve, we thought, perhaps a little fictional short story on the magical wonders of this season may be needed. John wrote the following short story and we want to share it with you.
We hope you enjoy.
A Steady Hand
by
John R. Beyer
“Are you going out today?”
The skipper peered out of the
Crowne’s front window and nodded his large bushy haired head. “Not much choice.
Family gotta eat.”
“Family ain’t gonna eat if you go
and get yourself drowned,” the bartender replied while dragging a semi-clean
damp cloth across the nicked and stained bar top.
“Family ain’t gonna eat if I don’t
neither,” the skipper said. “The squall will lesson up by the time I hit Barney’s
Point.”
The bartender whose name was Roger
White, but everyone called him Ken. He wiped one more time on the counter
before throwing the rag into a small plastic tub by the sink. “Weather man says
something different.”
“Ken, when have they ever been right
about the weather?”
“Last year when the Nor’easter took
out Louie’s Crab Shack. They knew about that didn’t they?”
The skipper, whom everyone called
the Skipper, nodded. “Okay, once in a while they get it right but that old
restaurant was bound to fall down with the slightest wind and rain.”
“Three goddamn days brought a lot
of rain, Skipper,” Ken said. “Lost a lot of crab and lobster pots along the
way, too.”
“It’ll blow through by noon.”
Looking up at the clock shaped like
a wooden-spoked ship’s wheel, Ken shook his head. “It’s half past two already
and it ain’t given up.”
“Better get going then,” Skipper
replied while walking from the window and grabbing his oiler from the bent coat
rack by the front door of the Crowne. “Put the drinks on my tab, Ken.”
“I wish you’d pay your tab,” Ken
griped but then went ahead and scribbled a few new numbers on the Skipper’s ‘owe
page’ in a battered old black leather ledger.
Normally it would take less than
three minutes for Skipper to walk from the Crowne down to the docks where his
Duffy 35 was tied up, but with the wind howling and the rain slanting at a
forty-five degree angle into his face, the journey took nearly ten minutes.
“Maybe Ken was right,” said Skipper
barely able to hear his own words. The wind was really ripping and the sidewalk
was slippery beneath his Wellies as he made his way to the waterside.
Skipper had no family who actually
depended on him going out on a day like this, to try to do his best to catch
whatever was available this late in the season. Striped bass weren’t probably
out on a day like this and the same with the black sea bass or even the Bluefin
tuna, which was his favorite because it was the one he could always count on
selling to the local restaurants which littered the historic downtown section
of this small Maine fishing village.
Rowlings had actually become more
of a weekend destination point for the millennials who ventured up the Eastern
Seaboard looking for small venues to sip their expensive wine while tossing
back plates full of crab, oysters, and any other crustaceans the local
fishermen like Skipper could retrieve.
He’d fished all his life and his
daddy before him and his granddaddy before him. It was all he knew – well that
and the pain of losing the family he had once had years ago. The family he
always told others that he was fishing for.
They were dead. Killed on the
afternoon of Christmas Eve eleven years earlier while he was out on the water. He
had not really been fishing, just out on the water. Lights had been strung
around the early 20th century grey wood-shingled two story house
where he had lived the past thirty years. Nineteen of those years had been with
his wife Teresa and two small children Anne and Tommy. The old house appeared perpetually
ready for the holidays. But though the lights were always up, they were never
flicked on. He had never had the emotional energy to ignite the tiny
multi-colored lights since the evening he had returned home and saw Frank
Sanders’ patrol car in his driveway.
“Skipper – your family was killed
while you were out on the water.”
It had been a simple statement from
a simple man. Skipper thought nothing of the way the news had been delivered –
it was just Frank’s way of saying things. Chief Sanders was a kind, God-fearing
man whom Skipper had known all his life. The facts were simple – his wife and
two young children had been killed in a car accident just three miles from
their home. Seems as though Teresa had a blow-out on the right front tire while
navigating a sharp turn, and then overcorrected, sending the Jeep Cherokee
first into a tree and then down a sharp embankment into Smyth’s pond. Skipper
wasn’t sure if they had been alive when the car went into the water but he
hoped they had not – the thought of drowning was the last thing Skipper would
have wanted his family to suffer through.
Being a seafaring man, drowning was
a constant nightmare with which he lived on a daily basis. It hadn’t been the
nightmare for his family but reality
He hoped they hadn’t drowned but
the damage on the car was limited so they probably did.
Lifting one heavy right leg over
the gunwale Skipper steadied himself on a stay line that he had added years ago
from the aft to the cabin door of the small enclosure toward the bow of the power
boat. It was his own design, and now some of the fellow fishermen and even some
recreational users utilized the idea. Step onto the deck in nasty weather and
you could immediately hook up or simply use the plastic coated steel cable to find your way into the
cockpit.
Opening the door to the small salon
which housed the pilot seat for the thirty-five footer Skipper felt the
immediate relief from the wind and rain as he closed the door behind him. The
silence was nearly deafening, but within a second or two the ripping winds made
their way into his sanctuary. Still, it was much quieter than a few moments
ago. Quite enough to think.
It was foolish to go out on a day
like this but he was determined to cruise for at least an hour out onto the bay
and perhaps out onto the Atlantic itself.
Why?
He had no answer so he reached out
his right hand toward the instrument-laden console and lit up the Caterpillar
diesel which gave the It’s Hard Work
its heart. The 1986 Duffy came to life with a roar and rumble and Skipper
tightened his oiler a bit more as he once more trudged out of the cabin and
into the rain and wind.
He was glad he had installed the
stay line, as he called it, on this foul day as he inched up the wet deck
toward the bow and slid the rope off the port side cleat. Repeating the same he
undid the aft rope and hurried back into the cabin.
With the position of Skippers dock
the water was rather calm even with the wind above deck. There was a large
wooden fishing commercial building hanging out nearly sixty yards into the
small harbor giving most of the slips a comfortable wave resistance.
With the ease of an old experienced
hand Skipper sent the dual levers up a titch and the fishing boat made way out
of the slip and into the main channel leading to the bay.
No cover from the building gave
Skipper an immediate understanding how turbulent the winds and water were. It
would be much worse within twenty minutes as he passed the familiar landmarks
on the port side. He sat back in his well-padded pilot seat and hung onto the
wheel as the small ship wanted to heave portside while he demanded starboard.
The waves crashed up and over the
bow so he put out more thrust knowing the boat would level itself even with the
roller coaster ride ahead. Within a few moments the boat was handling the rough
weather as it always did – like a pro.
A steady seven knots into the head
wind made Skipper feel rather confident that he may be able to outride the
storm which suddenly looked as though it was running out of steam. The clouds
had stopped sending the steady stream of rain and now just a gentle shower was
striking the boat as he made his way steadily forward. The waves themselves had
lessened within the few short minutes he had been handling the boat and the
speed was picking up also without making adjustments to the throttles.
At ten knots the ride was cleaner
and his spirits picked up as he suddenly a small rainbow break loose like a
shot to the port. A beautiful sight these rainbows. Skipper never got tired of
witnessing the multicolor light show from the heavens over the blue of the
Atlantic – today was no different.
He pushed himself hard against the
Captain’s chair and then relaxed. His lower back muscle suddenly feeling much
better and not so tight as it had a few minutes before when he worried so about
the weather and if he should be out on a day like this. That’s what happened
when the Skipper worried – the muscles in his lower back bunched up causing him
hell. He would stretch or like he just did, push against something like the
seat as hard as he could and the tension would be gone. He wasn’t a medical
doctor but knew what worked in those situations and worked it did.
He felt much better.
Elven knots and the water was
relatively calm and no rain was falling. Thirty minutes and he’d be a mile or
so out of the bay and in open water where, if he chose, he could drop a line or
two. Today wasn’t really commercial time but more Skipper time. He needed to be
alone – to be in the solitude of the ocean.
Memories of that Christmas Eve had
welled up inside his brain over the past few days and he couldn’t shake the
doldrums he was feeling. Of course, he blamed himself for the death of his
family.
He hadn’t even fished on that
Christmas Eve but simply headed out to the shoals and puttered around – maybe
he did drop a line or two but he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t important if he
remembered or not – they were dead and he wasn’t.
Or wasn’t he?
He sometimes laughed with the other
fishermen around the docks. Sometimes have way too many beers and stagger home
rather drunk. Even maybe go out to dinner with the few friends he had and smile
and joke but when he made it back home all there was an empty home.
House really now – a home is where
the family is and a house is where there is no family.
The sun was doing a peek-a-boo with
the clouds and one moment it was sunny the next it wasn’t. Skipper looked out
to sea and noticed that some of the waves were starting to grow toward the
mouth of the bay. Not a good sign.
Perhaps he should spin the wheel
and bring the Duffy back to dock. He increased the speed a bit and headed
further out into the building sea.
“You don’t need to do this,”
Skipper said aloud as the bow took a direct hit by a crashing wave and then
another in the two setter. He almost fell out of his chair but by bracing his
legs against the console he was able to hang on.
As far as he could see, the
visibility was probably near a mile even in the current weather conditions, he
didn’t see another boat.
“No fool would be out on a day like
this,” he said. “Then why am I here?”
He had no rational answer but knew
that rational thought had no business in his head – he was out there because he
was out there.
Just like eleven years ago when he
should have been home with his family – perhaps they would all still be alive
or perhaps they, including himself, would all be dead. Drowning inside a dark
car in a small pond on the outskirts of town.
He would have preferred that over
this. He turned the wheel to port to avoid a side stinging high wave and took
the punch in the face. The small boat shuddered, shook herself off and plowed
ahead into the rest of the oncoming waves.
He was a confident seaman.
Hurricane’s and the like frightened him but through decades of battling the
devil he had gotten used to them. He trimmed the engines a bit and the Duffy
rode a little higher and more stable.
He knew the waters, had been raised
on the waters and nothing could dissuade him from the rough waters ahead. But
something suddenly punched him in the stomach.
Looking starboard he saw an
unexpected guest. A blind wave, many called them rogue waves, but seasoned
sailors knew they weren’t rogue but simply there to test a sailors mettle. Skipper’s
mettle was tight to the point of breaking but at this last moment he thought of
his wife and that’s when the wave hit, cascading over bow and stern with
ferocious velocity. The small boat
nearly capsized as he gripped the wheel and the console with all his might.
The heavens still showed mainly
blue and clear but Skipper knew that could be deceptive on the open sea. He
realized believing in the heavens was a failure of most humans. In reality
there was nothing but unexplored stars, constellations and the rest science
proclaimed. There was no God waiting for those who believed – those who
believed were simply fools on a fantasy wish for a heavenly existence after
death.
He knew of no afterlife. No god was
going to be merciful to him. He would be worm food and nothing more in the
future.
The Duffy shuddered again, rocked
back and forth but finally settled on a northerly direction and Skipper knew it
was time to tack around and head back to port. The clouds were no problem but
the waves were pitching way too high for no reason. He grabbed the wheel and
spun it in almost a hundred and forty degrees. Port needed to be reached and he
was determined to reach it quickly.
Ten minutes later he was headed for
the mouth of the bay and realized he had missed a bullet that afternoon.
Then he heard the sound no sailor
wants to hear. An aft crashing wave that was not expected but happened.
Skipper spun around in the
wheelhouse cursed and was taken over by a wall of water that had to be at least
twenty feet tall. The Duffy took the full brunt of the wave in the aft section
and Skipper grabbed for the chrome half inch safety grip around the console.
He
didn’t find it.
With
the lunge of a drunken bear Skipper staggered across the small enclosure of the
wheelhouse and found himself falling to the deck as the Duffy skittered beneath
the impact of the wave.
“This
will hurt,” he heard himself say as the bulkhead reached up to him for a
punishing blow.
There
was nothing but silence – dark silence.
“You
shouldn’t have been out at sea today.”
Skipper
felt the wound to the left side of his face and knew that there was a gash
which probably needed stitches and he had also heard a statement directed at
him.
He
didn’t reply but just laid on the deck in pain and confusion.
“You
were always a quiet sort of guy.”
Skipper
knew the voice.
“I had
to be since you did most of the talking.”
“You
never complained.”
“Nor
would I ever had,” Skipper said from the prone position. “I loved you and loved
the sound of your voice.”
He
started to wriggle into a sitting position but stopped when the voice
continued.
“Just
lay still while the blood coagulates. You’ll be fine if you just ride out the
next wave and then you can head back to dock.”
“But I
want to see you,” he said. “I miss you.”
“You’ll
see me and the children soon enough and we miss you but it is not your time.”
Skipper
laid back as told and breathed easily. He wasn’t scared but happy to hear the
voice of his wife. “Why not? I’m ready.”
“Is
that why you went out today with a storm a brewing? You wanted to end it now?”
“You
seem to know things – I’m sure you can tell me what I was thinking.”
“It’s
not like that.”
“What
is it then like?”
“I
don’t really know,” Teresa replied. “I am just here – just now.”
“Where
are you most of the time?”
“In
your heart I presume.”
Skipper
knew that to be the truth. His head strangely didn’t hurt and he could tell the
wound had stopped bleeding but he had no desire to stand up. The boat was
tossing to the throes of the waves but he was not worried about capsizing – the
Duffy could take it. He just wanted to lay on the deck listening to his
beautiful wife whom he had missed so much over the past eleven years.
He just
wanted to lay there.
“You
can get up now.”
“I
don’t want to.”
“The
bleeding has stopped and you should probably get back to the wheel and point
your bow to the safety of the harbor.”
“I miss
you.”
“And we
miss you – Tommy and Anne talk about you all the time and can’t wait to see you
again.”
“Are
they here with you?”
“No –
I’m not sure where they are but they are not here.”
“You
don’t seem to know much about your current status do you?”
“It’s
difficult that much I’ll say,” replied Teresa. “It’s like being somewhere
comforting and familiar but not really knowing the exact location. Odd
actually.”
“Sounds
like it,” Skipper said while slowly sitting up knowing he should be at the
wheel and not lying on the deck spread eagled.
He
pulled himself up by grabbing the rail running along the front side of the
console and stopped a moment to catch his breath.
“Dizzy?”
“And
nauseous.”
“You
banged your head pretty hard when you fell.”
“You
saw it happen? Are you watching me from Heaven?”
There
was a long silence. “No, not exactly but when you fell I saw it and then I was
here – well that’s how it happened. I’m not sure I’m in Heaven but some place
safe with the children.”
Skipper
thought about that for a moment. “What do you do all day?”
“I
don’t know – there’s really no time where I am, just a presence.”
“God?”
Skipper asked as he regained his balance and sat down behind the wheel. There
was no one in the cabin – just Teresa’s voice.
“I
don’t know just a presence of peace and harmony. No pain, no longing, no sadness
– just contentment.”
“And
the kids?”
“Oh,
yes they are with me – we’re all together.”
“In a
house or an apartment?”
Teresa
laughed. “Spin the wheel, Skipper – there’s a wave breaking a quarter mile out
but you have time to run from it.”
He did
as he was told and the Duffy easily drove back inside the breakwater of the
harbor while the wave approaching dwindled. Clouds had given away to sunshine
and the sea was very calm at this point. He had no idea how long he had lain on
the deck but looking at the hours on the engines knew it had to be at least
twenty minutes as the Duffy had made its way back to port with no one at the
wheel.
“Was
today a miracle?” Skipper asked, while once again looking around inside the
cabin. There was no one.
“Every
day is a miracle, my love. Remember that – each day is to be cherished and
fought for. Days are limited but happiness is not. We are happy, and we know that
one day we will all be together again.”
“When
is that?” Skipper asked hoping the answer in return would be very soon.
“Not
for a while,” Teresa said as her voice started fading a bit making it hard for
Skipper to hear it above the slight breeze beyond the glass windows. “Not for a
while.”
“I have
to wait?”
“You
must wait until it’s time.”
“I
guess I can wait,” he muttered.
A small
laugh emitted from within the confines of the small cabin. “You have no choice
on that matter.”
Then, once
again it was silent.
“Good-bye,
Teresa,” Skipper said as he brought ‘It’s Hard Work’ gliding back to dock.
The
engines off, Skipper sat while the boat bumped against the rubber guards and
thought. It only lasted a few minutes until he pushed himself out of the
Captain’s seat and went outside to tie the Duffy up.
Walking
home he thought about stopping by the Crowne’s for a beer and tell Ken about
his day but no one would believe the story.
It was dark, he was tired and he
should probably check on the wound to his head even though it no longer hurt.
He’d tend to it anyway.
He walked home, stepped up to the
front porch, turned and stared up into the star filled sky. Opening the front
door he suddenly flipped on the string of Christmas lights.
Something he had not done in eleven
years.
