Tide by John Kinsella

Author:John Kinsella [Kinsella, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Contemporary Fiction
ISBN: 9781921924583
Amazon: B00FIX5S60
Publisher: Transit Lounge
Published: 2013-09-29T04:00:00+00:00

BONFIRE ON THE BEACH

The fog came as a surprise, even to the locals. Even to Syd. One could usually predict it easily enough, but this fog was odd and unsettling to even those on solid ground. For those still out in small boats, it smothered and confused them and had them flashing lights and calling into the soup. Syd’s boat was alongside Carnac Island, and he thought of how the first colonial ships had offloaded their human cargo there after hitting a sandbar. He thought about such things a lot of the time. He liked to ruminate on history and facts. He felt that it would be safer sitting close to the island than braving the fog, but he couldn’t persuade his old fishing mates to listen, and they moved further out from the rocks and disappeared into the fog like the other craft out there in the Sound.

He wondered why he listened to his mates, who were novices when it came to boats. But they played bowls together and they were better at that than him, so Syd followed the usual course of things. He told them to keep calling into the murk every ten seconds, then listen. The outboard putted slowly but surely, and they headed south. Syd estimated they’d need to do this for about twenty minutes before swinging in to where the beach should be. He plotted the course in his head: the shape of a set square.

It gives me the shudders, too, he said, but was surprised at how jumpy his burly mates were becoming. They all wore life jackets; he was an experienced sailor.

No need for name-calling, he said, trying to laugh their barbs away. Why were they blaming him? Should have known a fog was likely. That’s probably true, but he’d seen no signs, and other boats with experienced skippers had headed out at the same time. Came up out of nowhere. They do that sometimes. Clichés exist for a reason. Yes, it should be in his bones after all these years, but it was the first trip of the spring and he’d not been down at the shack for many months. The bones were settling back in. He was finding his sea legs after a break, but it was all there. He’d been sailing and skippering small boats all his life.

Call and response. Yes, we’re over here. Calm down, fellas, just one at a time, you’ll confuse them. Swearing won’t help. And I won’t tolerate being spoken to like that on my boat. One boat, one skipper! They wended their way through crossing voices. To make matters worse, it was getting dark. Always trust the compass; nothing else matters. The shore can only be in one direction.

Trying to keep them calm, he remembered a bitter incident. He was a non-drinker. What his bowls mates emphasised as a tee-totall-er. They called him a wowser and a prude, half joking, but it was remorseless. Every week for ten years. He went to the bar with them and drank lemonade; he never begrudged them their drinks.

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