A Sea of Indigo

Three weeks of on and off again writing of this short parable of a story. I truly hope it finds a home in your heart as much as it has made one in my own.

                                                            A Sea of Indigo

       
                                                                         By

                                                 

.                                                      Carlos Lorenzo Estrada

A wise old man once asked of God, "When does a man know he has come to his end?"  And he swore he heard a whisper in the wind say, "It is when he comes to realize he can no longer do what in life he loved."- Unknown

     There was a stillness in the sea, a hallowed silence of reverence within the calm.  Likened to the moments of a Sunday mass in the holiness of churches.  The boy stood up in the teetering motion of the small row boat.  His fear and anxiety giving rise within him, as he steadied himself cleansing the sleep from his eyes.  He searched from end to end within the tiny vessel for the old man.  He had only napped for a short time he believed, and yet to his dismay he awoke to the emptiness and the vastness of the blue.  There was only the soft rocking of the waves against the row boat that kept him company, and nothing more.  He was alone.

    

.     "Santiago!" He cried out nervously searching from horizon to horizon for the old fisherman.  But his only companion was the gentle breeze of a southern wind and nothing more.  Several more times he called out into the warm saltin air, but received no response in return.  And in the great expanse of indigo he found himself lost.  The coastline was no where in sight.

    

     The morning had started like every other in this small Adobe town located on the west coastal line of Mexico.  It was a place out of time defining an era of simple luxuries and the comforts of tradition.  Marisco, the villagers had called it.  For it was known by its ancestors to harvest an abundance of shellfish and camarón (shrimp) that littered its sea.  There was no running water to speak of only a well dug deep into a dusty plaza within the small town square.  It often served as a place of local gossip and news worthy events distributed by the local women who frequented the well to fill their pottery vases, like their mothers before them.  Along the southern edge of the square was a reserved spot for La Pulga, or local flea market.  Goods were exchanged from hand to hand at many times via trade of wares, crops, or the days catch from the sea.  Seldom did Dinero enter into the equation.

     

    

 .    It was here in the heart of this village that one Santiago Guzman found relevance and a minor bit of fame.  He was a sea diver of great renown to the townsfolk.  And often prided himself the best to ever dive the coastlines of these lands.  In his growing youth he was marveled as a prodigy capable of diving into the deep depths of the sea to fill his ragged sacks of burlap with the tasty shelled creatures that lived therein.  On a single breath he could have half a sack filled before racing to the surface to inhale the wind of the divine.  This skill brought him joyous bliss and fame from peers both old and young alike.  The reverence for him was pronounced by the people of the village who gave to him the moniker of "El Santo de Mariscos".  No one ever came close to equaling his payload during his prime.  Even as a small child first learning his craft an astounding record catch of four bags had yet to be broken for a child of that age.  Though he had no education his God given talent provided him with a life of simple comfort, and in the end that is all a man can ask for in a humble place he was born to.

     

.    But he was old now, and his days of sea diving long past.  His old fragile bones could never more enter the depths of the only love he had ever known.  Her yearning haunted his restless spirit.  And he would often awake from dreams of himself swimming in the seas of deepest azure.  The rippling shimmering of blue obsessively painted in his sleep like the turquoise veils and sheer silken robes of his divine mistress.  They were unwavering in their call, and he often awoke in tears for his longing of her.  It was at this time he struck up a friendship with a young boy named Mateo "Moco" Palacios.  He was a fatherless child who lived alone with his mother, Emelda, in a little Adobe home facing the sea.  He had an affinity for the child, for in his culture basterd children were often ridiculed and frowned upon.  But on this day Santiago would grant the wisdom and instill purpose within the child's heart, and bring him closer to manhood.  An endeavor he sought against all odds.

     

.    The old man started his morning much like every other typical day.  He awoke and prepared his own breakfast, then after eating he left on his mile journey to see his prodigy.  He found a comfort in the solitude of this quiet travel.  His mind often lost in thoughts of past glories and revelry.  It would eventually be broken by his knocking on the door and flirtatious smiles he would often cast toward Emelda, as she welcomed him into their home.  He had given up on the thoughts of love years ago, for no women had ever met the expectations he had of passion that was given by the depths of the deep blue sea.  But he believed that in his younger days this woman standing before him would have torn the grip of his mistress`s arms around him and given him a comfort in life that the ocean never could.  With those days long past and this woman much younger then he Santiago could only find solace in what could have been.

     

.    They stood by the seashore edge checking as what was required in their ritual and tradition of them the tools needed for the coming work.  The ocean salt scent washed against their faces brushed by invisible fingers of a light breeze.  It filled their lungs with a cool redemptive purification that only a thing of holiness could bring.

     

.    "Check the bags for holes, Moco." Santiago asked of the young thin railed boy who stood before him shirtless and bare chested.  Handing him several empty bags of burlap as he prepared the small boat for journey.  He watched as the youth simply nodded in agreement still in the haze of sleep.  He slapped the back of the child's head to capture his attention. "Like I taught you, Pendejo."

     

.    "I know...I know.  I'm still trying to wake."

     

. .  "Everything has to be in order, you do not go out there unprepared and without the tools of the trade.  This is serious work, estupido, never take the sea lightly, because if you do you will never come back."

     

.    "I know, I know, you told me that before..."

     

.    "Then listen and take things seriously..." He scowled at the boy in oder to reflect the gravity of the moment. "...stop day dreaming about that tramposa chiquita Griselda.  She smells worse then pescado and is no good."

     

     "To you everyone smells like pescado, old man."

     

.    "You are right, and I'm not wrong am I?" Santiago shot back with a grin on his face and they both began to laugh as they continued their duties.  Eventually, after several minutes the boy lurched awkwardly onto the boat and with straining bulging calves the old man pushed the row boat out into the sea.  Free of its prison of sand it teetered against the waves and began its forward dance out into the blue. 

     

     "Do we have everything?"  The old man inquired.

     

.    "I think so."

     

.    "Don't think, Moco, check."

     

     The youth began scanning the small vessel searching through the strewn items around them.  As he did so his mind was calculating every possible thing he was taught that would be needed on such a perilous journey out to sea.  Mateo remembered his many months of training and the words of his mentor burned into his mind.  The gravity and importance that relied on everything being present that was needed for a safe return home.  It was then his eye caught the small circular metallic compass on Santiago's extended hand.

     

.    "Remember, Pendejo, nothing is more important then this.  You can forget everything else, but your life hinges on this small piece of metal.  It will be the reason why you make it back home, or whether you never return.  All these other things are useless and meaningless unless you have this." Santiago watched as his prodigy nodded in agreement.

     

.    They had traveled out into the settling blue marveling at the shifting tinge that went from deep cerulean to a calming indigo.  The purity of its breath awashed their pores with a cool tenderness that defined its nature.  Everything was alive around them and yet restfully hidden.  Only the wakes and waves revealed their presence.  They had finally made their way to the reef as Mateo took one finally glance back to see the dot of land miles away from them.  He had never felt so distant and away from those he loved, and yet a serine peacefulness as well.  He was in control of his destiny, and yet felt unrestrained in freedom.  The sea was a life unto itself.   She was inviting, yet enigmatic in perspicuity.  She only revealed when she wanted and only always under her terms.

     

     "We are here." The old man said, almost as if a statement made to end a prayer.  Solemnic and reverential.

     

.    "I'm ready." The boy replied.

     

. .  "Today is a good day.  I feel it, Moco.  There is abundance in the air, and I could sense it.  Remember how I taught you.  Breathe.  Let your body prepare for the moment, give into it.  Breathe.  Take it in.  Your test is at hand.  Don't think, simply become.  Look at her in all that blue. She wants to dance and sing with you.  Don't let her control the moments...you do.  In all these past days you have only been able to fill one bag and a half, but today is different.  I believe in you, Pendejo."

     

     "Why..." A crease of curiosity wrinkled the boy's brow as he questioned the old man. "...have you never called me by my name? You have always either called me Moco or Pendejo, but never my name?  Why?

     

     "You must earn your name, Moco.  Respect is not given freely...it is earned.  You will never become a man until you have earned that right.  You must take it, seize it.  By your own hand, not by another's."  And with his heart in his hands Santiago continued, "I can only teach you so much, Mijo, the rest of your journey is in your own hands.  Go now, I believe in you."

     

     With those final words of encouragement Mateo cast himself into the blue of the sea.  With nothing but a burlap bag and knife in his hands and hope in his heart the boy began his work.  He fought the ocean with every fiber of his being, his lungs straining with fire to contain breath inside him.  He worked methodically with the skill taught filling as much as he could of the bag with shellfish.  He would rise to the surface for breath and return to the depths to continue his work.  His young muscles felt the strain and pressure of the water pushing against him.  But the boy's spirit would not be constrained, his effort was immovable in force.  Several times he could feel his consciousness collapsing in darkness around the edges as he pushed himself further then he had ever been before.  He eventually settled into routine losing thought and simply becoming action.  And in this essence he was part of her, the sea.  With that they danced together in a song of their own, this child in the arms of his love.  Minutes moved to hours and felt like the passing of days within her embrace. With the second bag filled Santiago was engulfed with pride for his prodigy.  He beckoned the boy to find rest which was well deserved, but Mateo would have none of it instead pushing himself forward toward manhood.  With the completion of the third bag the old man exhibited more concern, but the boy simply brushed him off and continued ever forward.  It was after the fourth bag that Santiago began to plead for the child to end his quest.  But Mateo would not be denied, and so with hands blistered swollen and red he continued until the fifth and final bag was filled.  By then the old man forcibly hauled him back into the boat putting an end to the dance with the sea.  He had understood the allurement and enchantment she had on men and would not allow the boy to be sacrificed to her insatiable hunger.  The child did not belong to her, he belonged to the world.  The debt would be paid in other ways.

     

. .  "You did it, Mateo!  Puta Madre!  You did it.  This is more bags then any boy your age, including me, has ever filled!  You did good, Mateo, you did good." He wrapped his pride filled arms around the skinny boy and wept openly.

     

.    "I'm tired." The child said shivering in exhaustion.

     

.    "After five bags you should be, Mijo, rest and sleep for a bit, while I row us back to land."

     

.    "I did it, Padre, I earned my name."

     

.    "Yes, Mateo, you did." Santiago in all his life had never been called father.  He had never known such pride and elation for the accomplishment of another other then himself.  But this boy, not of his blood, was of his heart.  And though he could not do what he once loved, in this child he found the world.  "...you did, Mijo."

   

     Mateo searched frantically scanning the horizon but to no avail,   Santiago was gone.  There was no sign of him as the sun began its decent beyond the edge of the sea.  His throat was hoarse and sore from screaming and crying for the old man who was lost to the sea.  A profound anguish and pain covered his heart in the colors of the ocean.  He was resigned to his own fate as well, when sudden a glint of a fading sunray hit upon the worn silver cap of a compass, which had lay atop one of the five bags of shellfish.  It was a last message that was no doubt left for him to guide himself home.  Left by the father he had ever only known, and loved.
    

Author's Note

Growing up I enjoyed reading "the pearl" by John Steinbeck and wanted to write similar parable short stories which asked us to look into our own humanity and question the beauty and flaws of our own nature. I love this story and hope you find and take in it's timeless message to heart. Life is fleeting...you have to earn it. Write beautiful things!

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I loved the opening quote and the story. Great scenery and strong characters.
"He was resigned to his own fate as well, when sudden a glint of a fading sunray hit upon the worn silver cap of a compass, which had lay atop one of the five bags of shellfish. It was a last message that was no doubt left for him to guide himself home. Left by the father he had ever only known, and loved."
The above lines. a strong closing to a entertaining and worthwhile story Carlos.
Coyote

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

Thank you so much, CP, for this wonderful review. I know it was a bit long but I really loved the message of this story. It really hit home to me. And in some ways really spoke to the culture which defines me. There is a pride in work and its idea that makes it a self identifying trait in Hispanic culture. To lose that is to lose one's worth and value. Aspects of myself so identify with Santiago but the tragedy of his end is difficult to reconcile. But I saw this in my father and his passing because a strong work ethic so defined his life, that when he lost his ability to do so it slowly devoured his will to live. But it is the trait of a job worked hard and done well that he has passed on to me. In some ways his legacy is written in this story. And I hope he has found peace in the blue of indigo. Thank you again my friend.

[Coyote Poetry]

i enjoyed the story Carlos and you are welcome.