Lilac Point

FEBRUARY 11, 2004.

I THINK I SAW SOMETHING TODAY - A WOMAN, I THINK. UP BY LILAC POINT. IT WAS STORMING LIKE NO ONE'S BUSINESS. ALL I COULD DO JUST TO STAY AFLOAT. AND THERE SHE WAS. I SWEAR SHE SMILED AT ME. LIKE SHE DIDN'T HAVE A CARE AT ALL. LIKE SHE KNEW SOMETHING I DIDN'T. I DON'T KNOW, IT WAS DARK. MAYBE I'M JUST TALKING CRAZY.

My grandfather used to call days like this “bountiful”, even if they never ended up that way.

The golden red glow of a morning sun creeped its way across the pacific and kissed the weathered letters of a small boat that read “The Locket”; it would've been his idea of a perfect morning. The day would've stayed that way too, even if he never caught a single fish. Grandfather was gifted with that unending kind of optimism.

I reached over and moved the urn back a bit. Wouldn't want it falling during the trip.

And I checked the navigation system again to ensure I was headed to the right place.

Lilac Point.

I'd been fishing the waters of Nova Scotia for two decades now - most of my life. But I can't say I'd ever been to Lilac Point. Not that it was dangerous or hard to get to. Just that I'd never heard of anyone catching so much as a minnow near that rock. There were certain places like that - places fisherman knew to avoid simply because they were unprofitable and a waste of time. And consequently many such places found themselves the cornerstone of local legend. And Lilac Point was no exception. But I never was inclined to feed the nonsense barfed out by grumpy locals and soft-handed tourists.

I leaned back in my chair and flipped open the old leatherbound journal he'd left me. The old man kept this little book in a chest by his sleeping quarters, next to a picture of grandma and a large stack of cash. He always did treat this boat like it held the key to his very soul. Maybe that's why he named her “The Locket”.

MARCH 18, 2004

I HEARD HER AGAIN LAST NIGHT. THE MOST BEAUTIFUL VOICE I'D EVER HEARD. I CALLED TO HER, OF COURSE. STOOD KNEE DEEP IN THE WATER UNDER THE MOON. EVEN THEN HER LULLABY DROWNED OUT THE SOUND OF THE WAVES. I WILL FIND HER.

Rolling waves splashed against the bow, sending cool October mist into the cabin. I'd been sure to check the weather earlier, and had plenty of time to travel the 200 miles and back before sunrise. Of course, I'd invited Jessica to join me, as the old man had specified in his will, but she was too busy at the firm to take time off for fickle family matters. Still trying to outshine her little brother. But I suppose I didn't need her. The weather was nice, the boat basically navigated itself, and I was rather enjoying myself cruising along on the waves.

Maybe if she were here though, she could help me interpret grandfather's journal.

It read like some weird eccentric love story.

The pages were filled with someone only referred to as “her”, and it couldn't have been grandma. She'd been gone for too long for these dates to make sense.

JUNE 2, 2004.

IT'S SUNRISE ALREADY. I DONT REMEMBER HOW I GOT HERE. I WAS IN MY STUDY, AND I HEARD HER CALL MY NAME. I SWEAR IT. “GARY,” SHE SAID. I REMEMBER GOING ONTO THE DECK AND THEN…. I DON'T KNOW. DID I SLEEP LAST NIGHT? WAS IT A DREAM?

I kept the coast in view the whole way there. And Lilac Point was by far the best part of it. It was a beautiful little collection of rocks overlooking the coastal mainland. Lush vegetation covered it, with the occasional spruce or ash tree dotting the landscape. It seemed to thrive amidst what should've been a battered coastline. But to thrive in chaos had always been what grandfather was about. What better place for him to rest than here?

I pulled The Locket up to a safe place, close to the shore, but not so much that it'd run aground on anything.

I set the journal down and dropped anchor here. Shouldn't be too long.

After eating the sandwich I'd packed for lunch, I grabbed grandfather's urn, and headed out onto the deck. The waves had been behaving themselves for now, and a cool steady breeze swept the smell of spruce onto the ship.

I walked to the edge, closest to the point, and held his urn up over the waters.

It felt like the kind of moment when someone should say something - give a speech or share a memory. But in truth I was already emotionally drained from the past week. It seemed like all the tears had already been cried. The stories had already been told. And the memories had already been shared.

All that was left was this - for me to lay him to rest, and move on, I guess.

I leaned over, as much as I safely could, and gently dumped the ashes into the water. I rose and watched for a while until the current had taken him. “Goodbye, Grandpa,” I whispered.

AUGUST 27, 2004.

I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH MORE OF THIS I CAN TAKE. SHE’S EVERYWHERE. I HEAR HER EVERYWHERE. CALLING MY NAME. I CAN'T STAND IT. I NEED TO BE WITH HER. I NEED TO FIND HER. AND I THINK I KNOW WHERE SHE MIGHT BE.

It was done. Time to go home.

I turned from the coastline and started back toward the cabin.

“Paul…” A woman's voice - distant and yet soothingly close, like she was calling to an old friend or a lover.

I turned, instinctively, to the coastline. There was no one there, and yet the unmistakable presence of something loomed in the air.

Grandfather had said, like many fishermen do, that the sea could play tricks on a man, especially if he was alone with her.

Could this be what made him crazy?

Alone with his thoughts for so long, maybe he fell into them and lost himself in some salty delusion.

Brushing the matter aside, I turned and walked back to the cabin.

I was probably just hearing things. It'll pass. I just needed to get back home.

I punched in the coordinates, and pulled anchor. I was about to hit the throttle, when grandfather’s journal fell off the dash.

I picked it up and held it for a moment.

“Paul…” The woman's voice called again.

I turned and my heart nearly stopped.

I dropped the journal.

This time the unmistakable silhouette of a woman stood on the rocks of Lilac Point, the evening sunlight kissing her perfect skin.

When did the day pass? Was it already sunset?

Who was this woman?

What was happening?

“Paul….” her voice was mystifying and beautiful - an elegant song of delicate compassion. I walked to the edge of the boat. I didn't try to, but my feet moved on their own, my eyes fixated on the woman. Though the intricacies of her features were hidden, she was by far the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I was mesmerized, captivated, and I couldn't look away. But I didn't want to. I wanted to stay here with her.

To stay with her.

Yes.

I had to.

And before I knew what was happening, my feet moved again on their own - my hand outstretched toward her. I didn't regret it though. I didn't even try to fight when the icy current stung my skin and fought to pull me under and away - or when the salty froth choked my lungs and burned my eyes.

And even with limbs yearning for solid purchase, and muscles screaming for rest, the terror that must've filled my eyes was easily overshadowed by a persistent and foolish desire to be closer to her.

Even as her perfect hand clasped my ankle hard enough to crack bone, and pulled me deeper into the abyss, I felt only relief.

And even as I lost consciousness and drifted away into the dark waters, I yearned only for her.

SEPTEMBER 9, 2004.

LILAC POINT.