by David H. Haight, copywrite 2009
Inland, late summer sun hunkered low upon the land savoring each last rising moisture droplet. Seen through dancing heat waves, dust devils tickled alkaline flats, flowing ‘round ochre-splashed, beige-brown, hand-cupped hillocks, their clefts creased in dark green valley oak waiting upon November’s first rain.
Old Jim sat by the window overlooking cool Noyo Harbor ruminating upon his desolate childhood days, his mind percolating up a full range of buried memories to bubble into this misty morning. Once captain of his own craft this “beached” fisherman often spoke of buying another boat as his last now sat on the harbor bottom, victim of a drunken deckhand whose clumsy errors ruined them both. That sad day was over ten years ago, but it seemed like only yesterday. Thing was he couldn’t remember the deckhand’s name and when questioned in depth and in detail he failed to come up with any precise information. After a time the village folk slowly came to believe that there never was a deckhand who could be blamed for the accident that landed Jim high and dry on shore for the rest of his life. Maybe, just maybe, it was drunken Jim himself who left the bilge cock open that foggy morning when he puttered towards the outer bar heading to sea elated at the thought of bringing home a massive salmon haul, there being a great “run” in progress. Oh, sure he enjoyed the drink, he did! But he’d never admit to having been drunk and making a fool of himself. Blessed Virgin, none o’ that!
This morning as happened on average once a month, some flashy tourist selected “Me and My Shadow” from a collection of golden oldies on the battered Jute Box sitting in the corner. Damn, he hated that tune! The words always got to him – seemed to taunt him about that awful day when he suddenly found himself gulping sea water as his proud craft sank, pulling him down to harbor bottom and almost drowning him. Oh, what a way to wake up from such splendid hopes! Couldn’t get it raised neither. Got no money and everyone knew of his taste for the “happy juice”, so no one would lend a penny. Blast ‘em, one and all! Yet — he showed up regular like, early in the morning at this little café on the wharf to order his first meal of the day. It was always the same, i.e., eggs, sunny side up, with soda biscuits lathered in Mum’s thick, white gravy washed down with at least three cups of blazing hot, black coffee. Little of what he ate stuck to his hollow-faced, emaciated frame. Just in one end and out t’other. But, eating was a habit he never could quite break. Especially in the early morning when a gnawing emptiness writhed about in his mid-region reminding him that there was still some living to be had — with maybe one, just one little drink after sundown or maybe a couple little ones to warm away the night chill.
Toothless Old Jim, a frazzled skipper’s cap covering his bald pate, sat there scrunched over talking to the world at large — to anyone who would listen — to anyone whose eye he could command. All the locals knew Old Jim, having heard innumerable times how Jim was going to get back into action. “Gotta keep moving,” he’d say.
“Oh, yeah. You gotta keep movin!”
On this particular morning Jim was more talkative than usual, trying to draw the whole café into his rambling observations upon a shadowed life whose beginning was shameful and its end hidden in sea mist.
“Say, Miss, it’s another grand meal, but I didn’t order no bacon – don’t want it. I’d have to gum it!”
“Oh dear — my mistake. You can have it. No charge.”
Poking at it he added, “I’m a Great Depression child, ya see. Know what that means? Mustn’t let anything go to waste — damn.”
“Sorry, I’m so addled this morning,” she said. “Everything’s gone “galleywumpus” — you know, all mixed up! Just don’t know whether I’m a-comin’ or a-goin’. The owner — he died last night. Yeah, Fred just keeled over with a funny look on his face, like he seen a big slice of his favorite chocolate cake, and – and –” She barely throttled a rising sob. Jim froze, paused mid-sentence then gently touched her arm saying, “I know — I know darlin’. It’ll pass. Ya must take it easy, ride with the swell to keep afloat. Ya know that’s the thing to do. See Hon, I already been dead onct. They brought me back . . . their pro-fes-shun-al duty, they said, but . . .” After a pause, and an embarrassed cough he softly said, “Sometimes I wish they’d just let me go.” His eyes focused on a distant point far across the bar — way out to sea whose horizon held a mystery he couldn’t fathom. Then he was off again, serving forth his past yet another time and looking around the little room to catch the eye of any stranger who just might be listening. “What the Noyo needs is a really good party boat. Maybe a two-decker that could handle a couple hundred folks — serve dinner and cocktails at sunset — really give ‘em service like down south in Flori-day or on the Mississippi. Yep, like in Hawaii, off Hon-o-lu-lu. I bet the old town would boom — bring in lots of folks. Do it with flair. Offer ‘em something special, huh? Classy . . . the real thing!”
Jim stuttered to a lame pause franticly searching for a friendly face, his eggs setting up in cold grease. It was then his eyes locked on mine and he was off, yet again. “Been retired six years after gett-en out of the hos-pit-al — read every damn book I could get my hands on. I’m ‘booked out’. Ya know what I mean?” I nodded assent. “Action’s what I need — have to see things happen-en” His voice faded to a sad mumble as he attacked his cold eggs. Catching my eye once more, he resumed his soliloquy. “Remember clever Takano – end of the dock . . . Japanese. They make us look sick when it comes to know-en about fish. Yep, he sold his sea-urchin business and warehouse up here, end of the wharf . . . went down to San Pedro an’ bought a fish factory there an’ he’s now the biggest albacore canner on the West Coast. Right! Them are smart Japanese, ya’ know.”
Anyone could tell he admired Takano’s business acumen – wishing he were that clever. To his credit his voice contained not a note of racial put down, only respect. “Oh, they’re very clever, but boy did they get skunked on the Paramount deal. Remember that one? They bought Paramount for 500 million samoliens and ended up dumping it for 50 million. Brother, a lot’a shareholders took it on the chin with that one, heh-heh.” His verbal ramblings began to wind down at last, ending in a barely audible mumble, “Yep . . . I died once before – many years ago.”
It was then his face relaxed to look around the harbor again, his favorite place on earth, the only place he knew and loved with all its bustling wharf activity. The party boats chugging in and out . . . then the big trawlers up from San Diego or down from Seattle crunching into berth with their deep sea load of canner’s gold. Harbor seals, two by two, at night playing water polo under klieg lights aimed out from the big fancy restaurant cantilevered over Noyo harbor waters — that big touristy one right next to Captain Flint’s Fish and Chips place. Here and there sleek leopard seals mixed in the game, cavorting about in rolling dives to reappear twenty yards off with a dignified snort announcing their dark-eyed presence and — wasn’t that just fun, though? Fat sea lions, two-ton tuskers “urk-urking” at dawn and dusk to claim their place on wooden rafts barely peeking up out of seawater. Oh, how he loved all this! If he could only go out just one more time to feel a cold, fresh sea breeze and sniff the tangy-tarred Pacific soul food challenging him to another day’s due.
At last, he rose from table, sighed, paused and slowly crumpled to the floor thinking, “Here we go again! I’m just another brilliant act in slow motion.” Only thing was he wouldn’t be back for the applause. Of course he didn’t know that then, bobbing about in a ceiling corner . . . giggling to himself as he watched over all the pandemonium below.
Then the scene fell apart, a crumbling mosaic, changing into a time and place so happily familiar to him from long ago that he could weep — if that were possible. He was once again a small, curly-headed boy on the beach in a large bay at Mazatlan of a late fall afternoon near setting sun just as the young fisherman and his buxom wife with the big wrestler’s arms pulled in a great boiling net of fish churning in panic. Count and pull, count and pull . . . a one, a two and a three . . . again and again, until a magical mass of varied sized silver fish lay floundering on the beach with himself close at hand. Without warning the sky fell in on the three of them as a great wheeling inverted cone of birds dropped down around them. A screaming, diving, careening mass of scissor-tailed frigate birds, larger than gulls it was. Raucous and demanding they swept close to his head, their wingtips whipping a curl now and then as they scooped up the smaller fish. He joined in the mad feeding frenzy, laughing and shouting as he danced to his own tune, throwing little floppers high into the
air . . . life to feed life. Even the fisherman and his wife, now happily laughing at their fine late afternoon catch joined in the fun. Soon a passing young Mexican youth, balancing a great tray of honey-sweetened pastries upon his shoulder, laughingly tossed more floppers really high up with his remaining free arm as he danced barefoot on the sand to his own cha-cha-cha rhythms.
It was another…“Just Enough” day. Tomorrow would take care of itself, as it always did. After all tomorrow lies on the other side of tonight — and forgetful sleep.
Without thinking Jim passed through the wall, his soul drinking in this special spirit wind with its vivid personal tales sharply spread before him. He tried to cling to that first memory — that early, radiant moment watching a small dancing boy floating westward over the waters with a cone of whirling scissor-tails circling right overhead. It was a shrinking exclamation point at the end of life — fading into a different light – more mysterious and loving than he had ever known.
–o0o—
