Paddle slowly. My father always spoke in short sentences. It was almost as if he begged the words to come out of his mouth. For each word he makes, a sigh follows. I never understood the weight of words till much later. I had been asleep or pretended to be asleep till I heard him enter my room. With the lamp in his hand, he roused my body. Immediately I knew it was time to go. I wouldn't say I liked this part of the morning. I was not too fond of the feeling of sickness I felt every time we set out. But I couldn’t complain. Father needed my hands. But something different this morning, something eerily lurked in the air, and I could sense it immediately. I stepped out of my room into the early morning wind.
Following my father’s footsteps, I made my way to the boat. He had already made the necessary preparations. All I had to do was get into the boat and paddle. As a fisherman, your only skill wasn’t catching fish. Instead, it was knowing what fish to catch. But the fish smell. And after a while of catching fish, you begin to smell like a fish. That smell was what I avoided, like the plague. I never could live with it. I never could stomach the nauseating feeling that purges my soul when the fish smell hits me. But, my father had nothing against it. He was used to it. Once when he managed to speak, he told me that fishes don’t smell in water until they rot on land. Humans don’t smell on the ground until they rot below. I didn’t understand the analogy because if humans never smelled on land, why did Mr Bali, my maths teacher, always smell? Then as though he knew I was lost, he smiled at me and told me, “One day, you’d understand why all living systems smell.”
This particular morning was dark and foggy. But I knew the sea in a way no one else could. I didn’t need a lamp like others to navigate. This was an advantage because the light from the lamp chased away the fish. But in the dark, they may never know where and what you are. Fishing was a hide and sought game. Most of our fishing trips were quiet. My father and I barely spoke. When he spoke, he only gave me instructions. Several miles from shore, he broke the silence of the dawn, “do you believe in the sea” he asked. I was lost. My father had begun talking again in parables. But I answered regardless, hoping to stop the conversation even before it started. “Yes, I do”, I heard myself say, then just as though it were listening, the sea storm came.
No one outruns the wind. Not even Poseidon. But I tried my best, and together with the old oak boat, we raced against the wind. I tried, turning back towards shore, but father screamed at me not to think about it. And so I, my father and the small old boat faced the wind. While I paddled hard, trying to steady the ship, I felt my father’s hand on my shoulder. I looked back at him, staring at me, his eyes fiery. In his most gentle voice, he asked me, “Do you believe in the sea?” With fear in my eyes and salt in my mouth, I trembled and replied, “Yes, I do.” At that moment, the wind smashed against the boat, throwing us all into the sea. I was drowning. Then in a moment, everything went dark.
I woke up. Streams of sweat had formed on my body. This same nightmare had plagued me for the past two months. I never could understand it. My father had been dead before I was born. I heard he had drowned at sea. He was a fisherman; even though I never knew the man, I heard numerous stories about him. He was considered a legend among the villagers, some said he was immortal to water, but all of that were myths. Water killed him in the end. It was noted that a particular fish came to shore every forth-night; it would stay a few days, but on the day it was going to go back, it would take a few villagers with it. This fish was so large that no matter the number of times it was cut, it never died. Then one time, it came as usual, and my father swore it was the last time it would take any villagers. I was just a few days old then. And so, the fight began, the strongest fishers using all their skills to trap and cut this fish, but it never relented. Day and night, they battled this fish but still lost. So on the day, it was going back, my father hung himself on its back and followed it into the sea. He believed that since it couldn’t be killed on land, it could be killed in the water. That was the last time anybody saw him. That was also the last time the fish came onshore. Legend still believes that my father wasn’t dead but ruled beneath the sea. So every year, on the day he disappeared, a festival was celebrated in his honour.
I was rotting. With each passing day, I could feel my soul cave—sadness creeping around me. On days like these, I smell like fish. However, the number of times I take my bath or spray perfume, I never stop smelling like fish. Storm after a storm came into my life, overwhelming me each time I reclined and ran away. I went to my safe place and waited it out, but each time I set out again, after a short peaceful trip, the storm began again. But with the nightmare that has become a part of my nights, I have come to have some perspective on it. I smelled because even though I lived, I was buried below ground by my troubles rotting away. I couldn’t face the storm because I never trusted the sea. Then I realised that my father had been with me, he had always been with me, in this same boat, paddling with me, but I was too busy swimming fast that I ignored him. I didn’t hear him speak because I had concentrated on my troubles instead of assessing the situation. He was alive. After more than twenty years, I came to that conclusion. So before dawn, I set sail into the sea of life. The storm came, but I trusted in the sea, facing it head-on, it passed me. I survived.
The Sea.
This is lovely....