Fisherman

A lifetime at the tiller, piloting my toy sailboat through the swells and surges in the gutter, has left me with callouses. Blisters on top of callouses on top of blisters. A ruined back as well. I wonder sometimes, often now these days, what romantic notion carried me to the decision to go to sea. To spend my life fishing waters that I was duly warned were devoid of any catch that could sustain life. To fish for creatures that I would be better off leaving to their own devices there in the muck at the bottom. To explore waters that no experienced sailor would dare bother with.

But you can't, at the end of any day, even the best of days, tell a young man anything. I ignored the warnings, put my back to the tiller, and didn't look back until I was out there alone. I caught what I caught. I came back from time to time and would, when the opportunity arose, kidnap a reluctant ear, and overfill it with fantastic tales of storms, horrific beasts, and frightful misadventure. Then it was back out to the dirty water.

And now as I am greying at the temples, my back sore, and my hands twisted like tree roots reaching up from shallow sand, I am back on firmament, still looking for my land-legs. I still haunt the piers where my toy sailboat is dry-docked, and daily I am drawn to the mystery. To the notion that there is some treasure out there. The catch of catches that I might, to the amazement of everyone, dump triumphantly on the pier. Where people will shake their heads in wonder and admiration.

I will most likely leave that to younger men who cannot and will not be told that there is nothing out there under the waves. And I will wait down at the docks to see what they bring back, because I'm still not entirely convinced either.