The Old Man

He sat comfortably on a dried out piece of creosote soaked 12x12 timber. A timber which, on its own, had stories to tell. A stacking block, used to support the keel of a boat, laid up on hard ground, holding over the winter months, or out for a quick repair, and back into the water to savor the short months of a northern summer. The air was thick with salt. In the early morning hours, the sea was devoid of wind, until the afternoon breeze filled in from the south. The water held a pleasant stillness, boats turned in every direction, no wind to tell them which way to face. Quiet, and still, rigging sat patiently on tall sailboats, and children learned to sail on prams nearby.
A tall, metal, tin roofed building cast a shadow across his back, drawing a line across his white t shirt. His shirt smelled of fresh air, hung to dry from a clothes line, in a backyard full of flowers, and vegetables. The smell of his shirt was bright and clean, in clear contrast to the musty salt air, which stuck to your skin. If you weren’t born with it, it was an uncomfortable air. It was a time of day when the sun grew hot, and you waited for the breeze. At least that’s what the boy heard from the people who drove in from out of town to use their boats on the weekend. The type of people who drove shiny cars, wore white pants, and carried canvas bags with their initials on them. The old mans pants were neatly pressed, a khaki type of slack. Not a dress pant, but a working mans pair of slacks. A khaki cap covered the white hair on his head, and protected him from the sun. A small, colorful patch was hand sewn on it.
The old man spent his years on the water, mostly alone. He drove a car with one seat in it, which the boy figured was maybe missing when he bought it. The old man needed his time alone. It was simple that way. The solitude brought him energy and happiness, and he passed this to the people who waited by the shore for him.
The boy spent his youth waiting by the shore, to see his daily catch, and savor his smile as he set foot onto the freshly painted, dew covered neighborhood dock each morning. The boy waited just to see his skiff coast in. The old man woke before dawn and returned as most people were finishing breakfast and reading the paper. The early morning world was his alone, and the salty air was something he was comfortable with. The boy believed that without it, life didn’t exist.
The old man sat on the timber, legs slightly crossed, and his long, tanned arms wrapped around them, binding them together. He looked comfortable, for the moment. But the boy knew that this mans body was changing. It was not the invincible soul that he once was. He was not the semi pro athlete, or hardened blue collar construction worker. He was changing his routine.
The boy had never seen him watch somebody work. It was not his nature.
The boy reached up grabbed the propeller shaft, turning it slowly. A graceful, yawl rigged sailboat loomed over his head, casting a shadow away from the old man and across the dusty boatyard. The propeller shaft had to be pulled, as it was too short for the new engine, which he was ready to drop in place. The original engine had been filled with seawater under the watch of the previous owner, as she lay helpless on a sandy beach during a late season storm. The boat and engine lay in a shipyard for years, while briny water froze the cylinders, valves and inner workings.
Both the old man, and the boy knew this weather cycle well. Indian summers would last until mid October, when the fall began to creep in. The Northwest wind would fill, and when she blew, she blew without mercy. The bay was fully exposed. All the craft moored in her path were tortured on their mooring lines, pulled taut and sawn across their chocks, bounced and shaken. Only the saltiest of men kept on through this season, knowing how to wrap their lines with chaffing gear, and how to lash down and furl up. Those who respected this cycle would move their craft to safety, either up on the hard, dry ground, or in creek where she could be tied off to a tree. He who neglected the end of summer could claim their craft on the beach later. In the case of the boys boat, it was a sandy beach, and for the boy, a good opportunity for the craft change to more appreciative hands. So, he tried his luck and ignorance in bargaining, and bought himself a boat.
The old man spent his mornings peddling his morning catch at local markets, and in his right, was a shrewd businessman. He didn’t always collect cash, sometimes putting himself on credit, for a meal which he would bring his wife, or to a bakery where he would take home a bag a treats for his grandchildren who leaved nearby. He was not wealthy, but he didn’t need the money to pay his bills. He loved the exchange, the thrill of the deal. He loved the contrast of his morning alone with the mid day routine, working with people. The local merchants respected his nature, his sometimes tough approach. In the end, his kind heart was felt through his white t shirt, which he changed between fishing and bartering.
The old man watched the boy turn the shaft and smiled as he saw the boy learning what he had learned some 60 years earlier. Of course, things had changed since then. Boats evolved from wood to fiberglass, and engines became more complicated. They grew faster, and most recently, began to loose their style. Designers were building production style boats which appealed to the suburbanites, who could carry their canvas bags, sit on upholstered seats, and not leave the comforts of their shore side lifestyles. The old man taught the boy about classic lines, simplicity, and seaworthiness. Upholstery couldn’t replace an eye for the weather, and neither could fancy instruments if a man couldn’t read a chart, or see the tide, or dig his own bait. It was a lifestyle which they both appreciated.
The old man took his eyes from the boy to scan the boat. He told the boy how graceful the boat stood, and how seaworthy her design seemed. If you treat a boat right, she will carry you safely. Those words stuck with the boy as he fidgeted with the prop shaft. He rigged a chain around the large brass propeller, and the old man chuckled at the home brewed contraption, something his younger, more mechanical brother came up with. The boy took credit for the invention, desperate for a badge of respect from the old man.
The old man had deep, steel blue eyes, a blue that the boy only saw once again, sailing his craft in the deeper waters off Bimini Cay in the Bahamas. The cay is world famous for its hue of blue colored waters, which begins with the deepest electric blue of the Gulf Stream, an ocean current which moves 8 trillion gallons of seawater through the Florida straits per second, more water than all the rivers which empty into the Atlantic.
The time had come to launch his craft, and the boy scrambled beneath the boat, doing a last minute check to insure everything was in order. The crane rumbled, choked and spit half burnt diesel, warming itself up for the haul. He stopped for a moment to think about his hard work and the summer season left behind him.
The creosote block lay empty, and the boy stared at it. The first breeze of the day rustled softly, from the north, crisp and cool. He knew all along that the north winds this year would carry many things away, and he was glad that he was one of them. He choked back a tear, and moved on. The old man won’t tolerate it. Move on….he mumbled under his breath.
The boy walked up and down the dock, loading the last bits of food, clothes, and personal belongings in his boat. He lashed down the dinghy on deck, and stowed a pair of oars beneath it. His khaki pants rustled in the early morning air as he made his last trip to the boatyard shed. Nothing remained. He slowly walked in the shadow of the tin building, making his way back to the boat, ticking the boxes on his mental list.
He climbed aboard, his mind and body one with his craft. One by one, his lines left the dock, cast off by the people he was leaving behind. His new engine sputtered to life and he backed away, keeping his eyes focused on the deck, avoiding the worried eyes bidding him farewell. A fresh wind blew in his face as he moved across the bay the remnant smell of an old cigar lingering in the breeze.