My time at sea

We had docked in a port on the edge of Massachusetts, before heading out on the rough seas. Our ship, the Customhouse, was an oil tanker bound for Canada. I'd been on the boat for a few months now. Lots of crew would come and go but I became a regular. They liked me and took me on full time. I had never worked in one place very long. I always liked moving around and trying new things. One month I’d work as a line cook, the next I’d paint houses. Things like that really got me going. I loved working with my hands, which may seem strange for an educated man. It’s really not though because there’s a sense of accomplishment in it that you can’t find anywhere else.

My bunk was cozy. It was one of my favorite places to be aside from on the deck.

It was late in the afternoon when we disembarked from the ship. The pier was old, but well kept. It possessed a patina gained from the battering of sea water and cold winds. It was an odd sight, we were the only vessel in the harbor minus some local crafts. Some of the boys and I took off and went into town for necessities. Although Alan was a wonderful cook, we were getting tired of pot roast and mashed potatoes. One good thing about our line is that they fed us well. Coffee in the morning with pastries made fresh most days. Warm coffee always helped the cold mornings on the bow. For lunch we’d have hot sandwiches; ruebens, ham & cheese, or a pastrami. Dinner would come and we’d  have a nice meal. Usually together in the small built-in down from the kitchen. I never liked using nautical terms for non-sea traveling folk, too pretentious if you ask me. Gully this, starboard that. No one can make sense of it, and neither could I for a while. I can sometimes be slow to learn, but that’s not really important. Where were we? Yes, dinner. For dinner we would have hardy meals cooked with fat and butter. Roasted beef with vegetables, potatoes, heavy bread. Stick to your ribs food they’d call it. Spaghetti and meatballs or sausages. Things to keep us filled and content.

We disembarked from the ship at a quarter past three. It was overcast. I thought, that’s not going to bode well for our trip tonight. It was a cool fall day, I was wearing thick cotton pants, boots, a wool knitted cap, and a heavy jacket. I hadn’t shaved in weeks, and at the time my hair had just began to recede. I felt like Jack Nicholson in the Shining, and I had a demeanor to match. We first went to a general store, the man behind the counter was wearing a thick flannel and a scowl. The room smelled of cheap tobacco. I walked towards the counter.

Two cartons of cigarettes and a box of matches please.
The scruffy old man behind the counter nodded and disappeared in the back. He soon reemerged with two beautiful boxes of stiff cardboard. He plunked them down on the counter with a lazy underhand throw.

That’ll be 18 dollars.

I handed him a crisp twenty dollar bill and walked out with a smile on my face.

The other boys had sat this one out. They didn’t like going into the store with the old man. He creeped them out with his horror stories of ships sinking or being swallowed hole by monsters of the deep.

I strolled down the block towards the pub we always stopped at while in town. The boys didn’t like to wait for me while I picked up my smokes. After a few days at sea they were ready to drink and carouse with the locals.

I stepped into the bar, a dingy little place filled with rough fishermen and near do wells. Who else would be drinking at 4pm on a Wednesday? The boys took a seat and I made my way to the bar. Neon signs displaying the names of beers I've never tried lined the walls. On ground level were a series of dinged up pool tables with more than their fair share of stains. The bar was made of old wood, stained dark brown to hide the scruff of old age. Out the corner of my eye I noticed a woman I had seen around before. She was pale with blonde hair, but her roots disclosed the fact that it wasn’t her natural color. Something about the light hair, dark eyebrows combination really got to me. Her jeans were tight and the checkered shirt she was wearing was unbuttoned enough that it left little to the imagination. I sat beside her and took a fresh pack from my pocket. I lit a cigarette and offered her one, she accepted.

I’ve seen you around here before, what’s your name?
Margarette.
Pleasure to meet you.
What brings you around these parts?
My boat docked in the harbor for the night and I’m here to drink. How about you?
I come for the charming atmosphere and refined clientele.


Being lonely causes a certain strain on your soul. Its like you’re being deprived of an essential nutrient. I basked in the warmth of her next to me. I tried to savor that momembt because I knew it was fleeting and I may not experience something so soothing for a long time. She smelled wonderful and every deep inhale through my nose release more endorphins than any drug, liquor, or cigarette ever could. Her skin was soft, like nothing I had ever felt in my hand. I had been with other women before, but this time was different. I was in it for different reasons. Companionship was something I missed dearly while traveling on the open waters. I kissed the nape of her neck softly, she was fast asleep with a half smile fixed to her face.


The fog came across the bow of the boat as we crept slowly through the water. I was smoking a cigarette and fiddling with the equipment. Pierce's eyes lowered. This was the area of the distress call, but there were no signs of the boat. I put the binoculars down and walked out of the wheelhouse and down to the deck. Some of the boys were perched on the sides holding life vests and ropes. Their faces were a mixture of apprehension and confusion. The fog was becoming more intense. I heard a boy call out from the front. By the time I got there they were pulling someone from the water. A young man with short hair and a fisherman's uniform. He was ice cold, shivering fiercely as he clung onto the coat of one of the boys. He was making little sense. Sputtering and stuttering, he couldn't get it out.

What are you saying boy! What's happened to your boat? Are there other men out there?

We had floated right through a scattering of men floating in the water. Low moans from the dying. The smell of smoke began to fill my nostrils. I began to make out light in the fog.

I was writing on and off at the time. Mostly ramblings about things that didn’t amount to anything substantial. Occasionally I’d hit upon something interesting and try to flush the idea out, but could never get more than a few pages in. I thought it was my lack of will power that stopped me, but as I came to realize it was my lack of self confidence. They say you have to like what you write, but I seldom find that true. Some of us are born with unquenchable doubt, and they say that those of us possessed this affliction are often brilliant. Its sad because there is so much wasted potential born from a lack of faith.

I hated to tell people I was writing, it made me feel like an attention seeker, especially when I didn’t follow through. I felt a release when I transferred my thoughts to paper. There were so many stories I longed to tell, but just couldn’t seem to get out. I remember when I was a boy in Chicago, I loved writing stories about animals. I had stacks of them, but one day my father came into my room. He scolded me. What are these? He threw them away and told my mother I was acting like a faggot. That was a painful moment for me, to have someone you love, someone you looked to for protection and reassurance cast off your dreams, the work you poured into those things from yourself really hurt. My mother fished my papers out of the garbage and put them in the trunk of her car. When she took me to my grandparents house the next day she put them in a plastic shopping bag and handed them to me. She told me that she saved them for me, she said she read them and that she thought I was a good writer. My mother was the only person who ever believed in me. I miss her everyday and sometimes I wish my father would have died instead of her. I left home at twenty-one after she passed and went to live in the south where I began living with my cousin in Georgia. He was a difficult person to be with, but he taught me so much and as much as I hate to admit it, I credit him for my meager success.