All At Sea

Armed with a bitter tasting coffee that was strong enough to stave off a hangover, Mike barely heard the waves lashing the lighthouse walls. Once a popular artist, he had spent the past ten years in his solitary home painting stark seascapes. They were mostly black and white, with hints of grey breaking out as an afterthought. These days, applying brush strokes seemed like chasing empty dreams on canvases.

Unlike his earlier crowd-pleasing scenes of bathers enjoying the sea, Mike was never satisfied upon completing the dark sea pictures. Instead, he was haunted by blank spaces and the feeling that something was eluding him.

In what was meant to be Mike’s last night at the lighthouse, at least for the foreseeable future, sleep had evaded him. Mike needed to be standing at his easel in what had once been the lantern story and now served as a studio. With an old ship’s anchor fixed upon one wall with the sea as the ever-changing backdrop, what more could he want?

After ascending his spiral staircase, the studio was before him. Here Mike set about putting the final touches on a picture that was to be the last in the current series. The rest of the paintings were packed away ready for collection. Once they arrived at their destination of New York, a generous sum was to be transferred into Mike’s depleted bank account. With this in mind, Mike kept telling himself his problems would soon be over.

But life was never that simple.

***

In the “good old days,” when the sun had shone upon him and Mike had been loved, both publicly and privately, he had encouraged Kevin Wordless, a disgruntled student who’d attended his creative workshops. While Mike had been living off the fruits of early artistic success, Kevin had been wading through the pitfalls of being a writer who’d lost his muse and was getting nowhere with his bleak novel about a factory farmed pig. In a bid to break his writer’s block, Kevin’s therapist had suggested he attend Mike’s workshop and that was how the two had met. In spite of Kevin’s crusty ways and critical nature, a friendship of sorts had formed.

Amongst other things, the pair had discovered a mutual love of running.

***

At some point, the pig novel had been abandoned in favour of something that was commercially viable. In a complete reversal of fortunes, Kevin had been transformed from a struggling unknown to the international best-selling crime writer and philanthropist, John Barnacle-Dennett. Mike, on the other hand, devastated by the death of his partner Jeff, had apparently disappeared into a black hole. Unable to paint anything other than gloomy seascapes no one seemed to want, he worked in a tower that needed constant money pumping into it to keep it habitable.

Hearing on the grapevine that his friend was becoming as decrepit as his lighthouse, Kevin had turned up out of the blue in a glamorous sports car and wearing trendy clothes. Reluctantly, Mike had agreed to show Kevin the seascapes. After viewing them, Kevin had asked to buy them, claiming he believed in them and wanted to help. Doubting his motives and underestimating Kevin’s wealth, Mike had initially resisted parting with his paintings. Then Kevin had made his old master an offer he couldn’t refuse.

But it had been like making a pact with the devil. Mike had only agreed to sell paintings that had become part of his soul, out of desperation. He was unimpressed by Kevin’s descriptions of the seascapes as “yet to be discovered masterpieces” which seemed fake. In Mike’s opinion, Kevin lacked any notion of what was real.

***

Mike’s elation at reading Kevin’s email cancelling their proposed run was quickly replaced. His chest tightened as he felt the familia cord of despair winding around and holding him in a stranglehold. With Wind Zena predicted to wreak havoc across much of the east coast over the next few days, Mike got a temporary reprieve. The collection of his seascapes would have to be postponed for at least a few days which would give him more time to commune with the sea’s mysteries from his studio.

Once again, battened down at the top of his tower, with the wind rattling the rafters and a never-ending supply of home brew, Mike was free to explore his art, uninterrupted, and wonder...

What was it about the sea? What was he searching for?

He could never put it into words how it enthralled him. How there were equal amounts of pain and pleasure in attempting to depict waves that might never yield their secrets. It was like being possessed by something unfathomable; to his intense frustration, Mike hadn’t been able to translate what existed out there into his art.

And he sensed there’d be no peace until he did.

***

The next morning, ignoring all warnings of blustery peril, Mike left the lighthouse, crossed the clifftop barrier, and in spite of increasingly dodgy knees, forced himself to run. Setting off along the cliff path above his home, with the wind shrieking and tearing at his clothing, was hardly a sane act. As the sky darkened, huge foamy waves dashed against the rocks. Like them, Mike was no more able to steady the tumult playing out in his mind than he could subdue the wind.

As he ran, an image of Jeff came to him, offering temporary comfort. In it, he was wearing one of his colourful waist-jackets and his gold-flecked eyes radiated kindness and warmth. Jeff had always steered their ship in the right direction until poor health had taken over and stranded them on the rocks.

Now the image faded, and pounding the cliffs, there was the familiar trilogy of self-defeating voices.

If only Jeff hadn’t died, I’d have kept a tighter grip on things.

If only I’d have gotten help sooner…

if only I hadn’t agreed to sell my paintings to Kevin Wordless or Dennet-Barnacle, or whatever he calls himself these days. With all his sickening millions and that yacht in the Bahamas…

Damn everything. What was he even doing out here? He must get back to his paintings. Before it was too late and the best of the light was gone.

***

Returning to a lighthouse that smelt of salt and damp, Mike tried to ignore the knot that formed when he thought about leaving his refuge. While the lighthouse underwent extensive repairs, he’d have to live in a caravan on some godforsaken site a mile away, with nothing except rows of other caravans to break the monotony. All fenced in and soulless — with no view of the sea for creative sustenance, he was going to have to stay there while the area surrounding the lighthouse was fortified. Only after that could the work of repairing it really begin. Salvaging it would take months, maybe even years, with no certainty of success!

It was a grim thought!

And it wasn’t just the pain of parting with his seascapes that scared Mike senseless —though that was bad enough! There was something he could hardly admit to himself let alone anyone else.

No, he mustn’t think of it.

Of course, the logical part of Mike’s character knew he’d have to let go of the paintings if he was to stand any chance of saving “White Towers.” The name had stuck because there had once been two lighthouses on site. In happier times, Mike and Jeff had invested all their savings into the remaining one — even though it was no longer in use — in a bid to rescue it from dilapidation. Unfortunately, like so many others undertaking such rescue projects, without Jeff being there to encourage and support, Mike had lost track of the cost of maintenance.

The once brilliant edifice had suffered repeated battering from the sea. Even the rungs of the railing surrounding the studio were rusting. With flooding in recent years, the cliff had eroded faster than anticipated. Like a greedy whale, the sea was swallowing it up piece by piece. The last straw had come when part of the garden connected to the lighthouse’s ancillary buildings had been swept away leaving a trail of dust. Watching billowing clouds of red lifting into the air to be permanently washed away by the churning tides, Mike had cried for the loss of Jeff and their dreams.

***

But from the moment Mike had signed the contract agreeing to the sale of the seascapes, there was no turning back. His cherished seclusion had become a thing of the past. From then on, there had been a whirlwind of shaking heads as an invasion of laptop-carrying officials with measuring devices prodded every inch of his beloved home. He’d forced himself to be polite, replying to their questions, and making endless cups of tea — until he felt he was going mad.

All because of Kevin Wordless’s determination to acquire his works of art.

***

The storms had abated, and tonight was to be Mike’s last night at the lighthouse. On Kevin’s orders, the seascapes would be carried off in crates by a removal firm the following day. Kevin had come and stood in Mike’s damp-infested kitchen, trying to reassure him he was doing the right thing, but somehow it didn’t cut it. The lighthouse was Mike’s true muse and if he left it, he feared he’d never be able to paint again.

Tonight at least, while the wind rattled the windows and whipped the sea, Mike would get to spend one last night enclosed with his precious seascapes. The following morning he’d wrap his final canvas in protective sheets – for by then, it would be finished, and the night’s magic would have long dissipated.

Mike couldn’t bear it.

***

Back at the lighthouse, Mike showered and made a light meal consisting of Welsh Rarebit on toast. It had been one of Jeff’s favourites when he’d been alive. Eating it, he found solace in his memories. That, and hitting the bottle. He’d been trying not to do that when Kevin had remonstrated with him after discovering a pile of empties in a bin. The rarebit was the only meal Mike had eaten all day, and it tasted good. But as he made his way to the door that opened onto the spiral steps leading to the studio, he grabbed another whisky bottle telling himself it was one for the road. Reaching the last few steps of the rickety eighty-foot staircase, he was full of resentment towards his supposed benefactor.

What the hell did it matter about the drink? It was none of Kevin’s business how he lived his life or used his time. What did Kevin know about communing with the sea, or anything that didn’t involve a pair of long legs? He might be a well-known writer, but he was a failed artist.

***

Eventually the winds abated, and Mike turned to the glow of stars more than a thousand light-years years away. Like so much else they were an illusion, not really there. He thought of the lantern room and how it had once been lit by eighteen lamps to guide seafarers safely past treacherous rocks. Previous keepers had toiled away, including the keeper’s niece in the early 19th century, to protect them. Though the lamps had long gone, Mike had purchased the place to keep the memory of the lighthouse alive. The original keepers might have long departed, but their spirit lived on.

As the shadows lengthened on the wooden floor, the anchor of the old ship attached to the wall seemed like a sentinel guiding him. Mike thought of the pictures destined for New York, which were as familiar to him as his own flesh. Provided they were cared for, they would deteriorate at a much slower rate. The colours and images should easily last into the next century and beyond. Every time he entered the studio, he viewed them differently. He was never satisfied, constantly telling himself he could have done better. The real difficulty in parting with the pictures — something he struggled to admit even to himself — was that no matter how many hours he’d spent refining them, there was always that missing element. The purity, cruelty, unpredictability and sheer magic of wind-driven waves was accurately depicted, but he had failed to grasp the sea’s essential nature. He had not done it justice.

As the winds ceased their banshee wailing, the storm abated as suddenly as it had started. Mike settled on his couch, supping his whisky, gazing onto the ocean through the windows. With the subsiding wind, the sea’s ebb and flow was soporific. Before long, his eyelids had closed.

Without the wind to drive it, the sea seemed as calm as a millpond.

***

Mike wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep, but upon waking he felt different. The depression that had been dogging him for weeks had lifted. Alert and able to face things, he got off his makeshift bed and searched the sea. He instantly felt the hairs on the back of his arms tingle. His eyes lit on a space in the sea, a kind of vortex not far from the lighthouse waters. In the water, there was a shifting of shapes, and he felt a strange vibration as the sea finally surrendered its secret.

Heart beating thick and fast, Mike pressed his face against the window like a child. What could only be described as an apparition was emerging from the depths. Glimmering and unearthly, a scaly green body rose up. Uncoiling, it stared at the world through eyes that seemed primordial, yet compassionate. For some reason, they reminded him of Jeff’s eyes.

Sensing he was being watched as much as doing the watching, Mike was unafraid. His breathing slowed to a steady rhythm. It felt like he’d been waiting for this revelation for as long as he’d been painting the sea.

Maybe even all his life.

The sun had dipped, leaving wavy ribbons of silvery clouds. Mike reached for his camera hoping the creature would not vanish before he’d had a chance to film it. No one would believe what he was seeing without evidence. Moving cautiously, he opened the casement window and stepped onto the narrow balcony surrounding the old lantern story. Attempting to steady the camera for a long-range shot was difficult, but his tripod had already been packed away.

Already the figure was receding. Without thinking, Mike stepped closer to the edge of the balcony, his hand clutching onto one of the railings, and managed to take several pictures. When the railing started to give way, he almost lost his footing. The camera could so easily have slipped from his grasp, but somehow he held onto it. Then, after what seemed an eternity but was really only a few seconds, he let it go. As if in slow motion, it disappeared beneath the waves like his dream of a better life.

By the time he’d straightened up, only ripples remained.

Mike sank onto the settee, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Perhaps he was going mad! Had the strain he’d been under lately taken its toll? Had he in fact imagined things? Had he actually gotten rid of a valuable camera? It had all been so real.

The more he thought about it, the more he realised leaving the lighthouse didn’t have to mean the end of the world! A mile’s walk from the sea was no distance to a runner, providing he worked on his fitness. What was to stop him painting the sea early in the morning or late at night when the beach was deserted? If what he’d seen was real, when he eventually returned to the lighthouse the creature might appear again. Even if it didn’t, the memory would stay with him forever.

Deep down though, Mike believed the creature would reveal itself again. And when it did, he’d be waiting to finish what he’d started and paint in the missing gaps. He didn’t want to overdo it, just a suggestion of something beyond the surface would be enough. He’d add a touch of green, the colour of kindness. And maybe a hint of blue — the colour of calm, peace, and serenity.

In the meantime, he could always buy another camera.