Distant Shores

It had just begun to rain when Liam tied off the skiff to the dock and pulled what cages he managed to fill over the stern. There were large divots and scrapes from years of use. St. Augustine, Liam’s livelihood for 35 years, was a small 15 foot side trawler which had been gutted of everything but a half dozen crab cages, a radio that worked half the time, and a simple winch and net. He hadn’t used the winch and net in years though. In fact, he wondered on long calm days at sea if it even worked anymore.

The rusted metal clashed against the wood with a tin crash, revealing a meager catch. There were slim fishing seasons, and then there was this; enough for a few simple meals, or one lavish one. Truth is, even if Liam wasn’t pushing 65, he didn’t have what it takes to pull in the big catches. His boat was 15 years too old, and that was 10 years ago. He lost every deck hand that ever worked for him. Either they found a better current to ride, or they couldn’t stand him. He was mean on occasion, but mostly, he just didn’t like people.

Pathetic. Liam groaned with disgust.

Tight hot bands of steel had nuzzled into the joints of his hands. Little vises on every finger crushing the life and movement out of them. Cold days were always worse, but it was becoming more of a norm. As he reached for the decaying traps there was a moment he believed his fingers wouldn’t close at all. He would just stand there stooped over like a sad figurine, forever reaching for the day's catch. Other fishermen would come and pay homage to the oldest fisherman in the world, as they laughed and boarded their vessels, excited for the promises the sea would bring; all the while he would be frozen and trapped like the measureless fish he had trapped over the years. When his hands touched cold brined steel however, they clawed in a familiar gnarled way.

It had snowed two days earlier, and there were still large patches of black and white slush everywhere. On the water, the snow formed a skin like a wool blanket. It wasn’t cold enough yet for ice to form, but as it started to rain the icy skin began to break up and bunch, making darker areas of water like holes into an abyss. In a few weeks the temperature would drop enough that the clumps would harden and stretch until there was a sheet of ice 50 meters long spanning out from the shore. Liam had long since considered winter his vacation. Lots of boats still braved the icy, hazardous waters for fish, but his was not one.

Heading off the dock was a neat trail that lined the shore, cutting a line between the water and a thicket of naked trees. Liam walked slowly with his thoughts on his home and the warm fire there. His body knew the way. He had all but single handedly worn the trail he was on. Years of pacing back and forth from the water, always hoping for a bigger catch. A quarter mile up the path was a thin muddy road leading into the trees. No gate or fence, just a small sign pegged into the ground reading ‘Private Property: No Trespassing’. Simple words, and a simple request: leave me alone. He was a simple man after all.

His boots slushed and crunched through wet muddy snow. By the time he reached his yard the rain was coming down in sheets, dissolving the last of the snow. Liam was soaked to his underwear. All he wanted now was to undress and towel off in front of a warm fire.

The house was a broken down ramshackle of bleached pine and stained glass. The snow capped roof seemed to droop with disrepair, and in one corner there was a sagging tarp where age had won the battle of attrition. The front door was little more than a plank of wood and a tattered screen, ripped and hanging to the point of falling off. Over the years he had received many buyers asking if he would sell, not that anyone would invest in his decaying den, but the land was desirable. Some would send letters, and others would come right to the front door and knock.

“Didn’t you read the fucking sign?”

His visitors, always some happy couple with unbroken dreams, would squirm with awkward reverence.

“I’m sorry, um, yeah. Yes we did, we just thought maybe we could talk abo…”

“I don’t want to fucking talk. You know the way out.”

He would slam the door and go back to his fire. While he was nursing a warming cheap beer, he would rehearse dozens of excuses why he couldn’t sell.

The simple truth was, he had no idea why he didn’t sell. He had no kids. He was married once almost 20 years ago, but hadn’t spoken to her since the day she left. That was fine with him. He wasn’t meant for marriage or children. Odds are when he died they would probably tear the place down and sell the lot to developers. Still, he was a creature of habit, and his habit was linked intrinsically to this home. He spent his entire life here, where else could he go?

Liam was the 5th of 7 children, born to strong Irish Catholic immigrants. His family left Ireland in the 30’s when he was just a baby, and settled on the frigid Northern coast of Nova Scotia. As a child, he was beaten more than he was hugged so he adapted a thick skin, and felt compassion was a weakness. They were chronically poor, and hopelessly imprisoned to a paradigm that ‘life is hard work and pain’. His earliest memories were of gutting fish, the salty sour smell and the deck smeared in red. Fishing was all he ever knew, he couldn’t do anything else. Yet despite all that, Liam despised fishing. He even hated the taste of fish.

After 50 plus years, he was simply a sad old man in a lonely hollow shell of rotting wood and glass. No skills except those which brought him profound despair, and his only assets, a home too old to repair, and a boat no one wanted. Besides, people didn’t repair anything anymore. They bought new then threw away the old. Liam was old, and ready to be thrown away. As he sat in his soaked underwear wrapped in a towel, staring into a paltry fire, he felt a twinge of remorse. The feeling when you realize something of high value has been misplaced, like a wallet full of rent. He picked up his half empty can of Miller and finished it in a long loud quaff.

Outside the dark had replaced the light and the rain slowed pace and changed into large soft flakes of snow. Storm clouds choked out what bit of twilight was left. The calm friendly woods transformed into a macabre gnarled forest of groping bony hands and gaping slender faces. Liam got up from his shabby chair in front of the fire, walked to the back door and opened it a foot. On the back porch was a relic of steel and plastic in the shape of a cooler. Inside were a half dozen beers and a mess of spaghetti’d fishing wire, hooks, bobs, and crusted empty cans of bait. He pulled a beer free and cracked the tab, watching the snowfall yet seeing nothing. More than fishing, and fish, Liam hated the snow. It wasn’t beautiful, or majestic. It was cold, and wet, and life-sapping. When his parents made Liam and his siblings play outside as children, the others always found such levity in the snow while he would sit and cry near the back door. The thought occurred to him as he stared into space, he could always move somewhere warm.

Fuck that, he thought. It’s too late for that.

Liam closed the door and walked back to his chair. The tattered cushions were warm from the fire, and he leaned back and felt his lower back bunch and relax. In a few weeks, winter would hit its peak and he would take 2 months to hibernate and drink. He didn’t care for vacation anymore then he cared for working, but it was part of the routine. He didn’t fish the winters. After the docks thawed, and the water teamed with fresh life, he would return for another year. It had been a bad year, but next year would be better. At least that's what he told himself. Every year he told himself the same thing, and every year he failed to believe himself.