The Jealous Sea

A Story by AndrewH

A short story set at sea. For more of my writing, go to andrewhenleywriting.wordpress.com

Gerry McArthur was a good man who shot his son in the head.

Gerry McArthur was sailor and he owned a boat for deep sea fishing. It was equipped with heavy duty nets, reinforced lines and a large refrigerator. On this particular voyage, it was also equipped with Gerry’s seven year old son, Alec.

In addition to the refrigerator, the boat also carried several sacks of salt, to keep the fish fresh if the refrigerator broke down or became too full. But the fridge had not been too full for some time now, and that was why Gerry had taken to The Sea that day. He was contemplating. The Sea let him talk; The Sea listened. It took everything in to its salty soul, mulling over Gerry’s words thoughtfully before giving him an answer. He stood out on deck, hunched over with his heavy hands holding onto the brass railings. The air had a rich mossen atmosphere, and a healthy smell of damp emanated from the wooden deck, soaked in from a life at sea. If you cut Gerry open, his blood would smell the same. Seagulls swirled in a circle high in the grey sky. The water was a soft dark velvet.

Gerry allowed the cold wind to wash over his face, as the thick waves did the same to the boat.

“Maybe I’m just too old for this. You don’t have all the fish in you that you used to, and I know I don’t have the strength that I used to have in me,” Gerry told The Sea.

Its current calmed, giving him its full attention.

“I don’t know, lately I’ve been thinking I should just get myself back on land and stay there.”

The Sea was shocked and upset. The wind slapped Gerry’s face, and the waves climbed the boat ferociously, rocking it as they threw themselves into the hull, exploding with a bang of moisture. Gerry was unmoved, continuing his melancholy monologue.

“But being a seafaring man’s all I’ve known. You know that. I’m not sure I know how to do anything else.”

The Sea was appeased by this, and ceased its assault. The greenish waves stopped their ascent of the boat and ebbed down slowly.

Behind Gerry, the red painted cabin door swung open with a wind aided thud, and little Alec McArthur walked out, his chubby young face several shades whiter than usual. Its colour was closer to mashed potato than it was to skin.

“Daddy? What’s going on?”

The ocean gave a mild rumble as Gerry turned from the railways and ran towards his boy.

“What’re you doing out here son? Does your mother know you’re here?” Gerry asked as he ushered Alec inside and pulled the red cabin door closed behind them.

They sat down at the table together. Gerry’s arms were strong; firm and expansive. They rested on the table like two steel pipes. Alec’s hands were slightly fatter than his fingers, as all children’s were until around their tenth birthday. They appeared swollen as they gripped the plastic edge of the cabin’s table, and his feet swayed gently like reeds, as they could not reach the floor.

“I told mummy you said I could come with you. I hid in my room when you left, so she’d think I’d left with you. I waited a while then snuck out. I know my way to the harbour. I watched you until you started doing checks at the front of the boat, then I climbed in the cabin and hid in the storage cupboard.”

Alec’s plan relied on two things that he knew from experience he could count on. Firstly, that his parents would not talk to each other about his father taking him, meaning his mother would not discover he had lied. His parents rarely talked to each other at all, and his mother was especially silent on all things nautical. Secondly, he needed his father to take long enough performing the on shore safety measures �" ‘checks’, Gerry called them when he talked to Alec �" so that he could climb onto the ship undetected. His memories of watching his father sail with a full crew on a big fishing trip promised him he would have enough time. Alec knew that if he asked outright to join his father, he would receive a long and boring lecture of the dangers of the deep.

Knowing that at this point his lecture would not have the fear inducing, dissuadative qualities it would have on land, Gerry put his hand on his boy’s shoulder kindly and said, “You shouldn’t be out here, lad.”

“Why are you out here?” Alec asked.

The question was asked with curiosity, not hostility.

“This is my fishing boat, you know that.”

“But you can’t be out here to fish. You need Callum and Mickey and Bob for that.”

They were Gerry’s crew, and he did indeed need them for a successful fishing trip.

“Well, sometimes I just come out here to talk.”

“To the boat?”

“To The Sea, son.”

“What do you say?”

“Just whatever I’m thinking about.”

“What do you think about?”

“Different things. Life. What I’m going to do with my life. What you’re going to do with yours.”

“I want to be like you, dad.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. I want to catch fish.”

Gerry was surprised by this. He had never envisioned Alec becoming like him. He had wanted Alec to be his own man, to follow a passion, not footsteps. But now, at an age where Alec might want to be a traindriver or an astronaut, or Glasgow Rangers’ captain, he was telling Gerry he wanted to be a fisherman.

Gerry got up from the table and walked to the fridge. Inside, it was white with a single shelf at the top, narrowly holding a six pack of beer that limboed under the refrigerator roof. Gerry took out two cans; opening one with a cold crack of the ringpull and handing the other to Alec.

Alec’s small hands fumbled with the condensation on the can, and his stubby fingers took several flicks to activate the ringpull mechanism. He drank, swilling the beer around his mouth like mouthwash. He gurned from the taste, but then the taste was not the point. Watching Alec, Gerry slowly let the beer whirlpool around his own mouth, savouring the flavour of barely and hobs, wondering if the taste was ever the point.

“Do you like it?” Gerry asked.

“It’s okay,” Alec told him.

Gerry smiled and said, “Let’s go outside.”

On deck, the air felt thick and smelt musty. The Sea was steady, occasionally fluttering nervously and crashing against the boat. Its rhythm became quicker and more jagged as it spotted Gerry. Like somebody waiting to hear back from a job interview, sitting all day by the phone while pretending not to care, then diving on the phone each time it rings.

“I just need to go and talk to an old friend.”

“There’s no one else here dad.”

“You’ll understand one day, son,” Gerry said with a gentle laugh.

Gerry left Alec leaning against the water stained wood of the cabin and headed towards the railings. The water softly climbed the boat, as if it were a dog, desperately clambering onto its master’s lap.

“I had a little talk with my boy just now. Turns out, he’s got the sea blood too. So, I’m thinking he could take over some day. Make it a family thing.”

The Sea turned bouncing and jovial, happy with this decision that would keep Gerry McArthur on the waves for many a year yet.

“Course, the boy’ll need training. I’ll come out to show him the ropes a few times, but it doesn’t change the fact I’m too old for all this. Callum McDonald will take charge. I’ll stay on land and only be on board every now and then to help Alec out. For all intents and purposes, I guess this is goodbye.”

Gerry turned his back on The Sea, and it flowed away from the boat briefly, building momentum before twisting upwards into a huge terrifying cliff face of white water.

The enraged waves slammed down heavily on the deck, drowning Gerry’s knees in its iciness and knocking Alec over. Rain began to pelt them with spitfire shots. The wind pinned Alec against the cabin as Gerry fought against it, his feet slowly freezing solid as he dragged them through the seawater that covered the deck. Gerry forced the door open against the wind and tried to make a shield of himself for Alec. The ocean kept hammering into the starboard of the boat, attempting to tip it over. Gerry ushered Alec into the cabin again and closed the door hurriedly.

“I’m scared dad.”

“Don’t worry son. It’ll calm down soon. Always does.”

Alec clung to his father’s arm like a chimpanzee around a tree trunk. Cold daggers of wind attacked them through chinks and cracks in the cabin. Gerry and Alec huddled together, Gerry trying as best he could to shelter Alec. He could do nothing once the wind peeled the roof off their cabin like a mackerel tin.

Alec was sore and stiff all over from the cold. The fierce wind and highspeed water droplets did not let up. The waves had given up on their tipping the boat strategy, and were now using a more focussed attack, concentrating and aiming to fracture the hull. This technique had already proved successful, creating several holes that were taking in water. It did not take them long to engineer a bigger, more dangerous thunderbolt crack.

The boat slowly became V-shaped, both sides sloping down in the centre, to a low point that now dipped below the harsh coldness of The Sea. Alec and Gerry each gripped on to a coarse length rope. Alec felt the stubble of fibres digging into the soft flesh of his palm. Gerry did not.

Gerry had witnessed men drowning before. Their faces gurgled, their bodies shivering in the water as the blood froze and stole the colour from their skin. Gerry had felt with them the unbridled pain as their last breath escaped from them, never to be replaced.

He grabbed Alec and threw him into the cabin. The roof was gone, but the walls were still standing. That would give them some protection. Drowning was a painful way to die. The most painful, Gerry would say, having seen it first-hand. He wasn’t going to let that happen to his boy. Not when he could save him.

The waves kept battering against the weak spot in the hull, widening the wound. Chips flew off the top of the cabin walls where the roof had been torn away. The splinters broke off sporadically and sank into the deep blue of The Sea.

Gerry kept a gun in one of the cabin cupboards. Just in case. You never know what might happen at sea.

Alec was pressed up against the wall. Gerry fought through the gust in the exposed cabin and opened the gun cupboard. The tears in his eyes were lost in the rain on his face. He pulled back at the hammer and laid his finger on the trigger. It shivered, not from the cold. Aiming at Alec, he shut his eyes and squeezed. He would not let his son drown. Gerry McArthur was a good man who shot his son in the head.

At once, the storm subsided. The waves and winds slowed. The rain dried. The Sea retreated. Alec’s body slid slowly down the deck to its ocean bed grave. Gerry held the gun to his own head, then swam with his son. Gerry McArthur was a good man who shot his son in the head.