The Wind Whispers

Baltasan is relaxing on the porch swing of his white cottage that overlooks Madeira Bay. He was born on Madeira Island and has lived his whole life by the sea. Ever since Baltasan was twelve, he had worked on commercial fishing boats. He retired thirteen years ago.  He didn’t want to do it, but he had no choice.  The company was moving to the mainland. So now he sits staring out at the ocean he loves so much. At eighty-three, Baltasan’s face shows the wear and tear of life at sea. His skin is wind-burnt brown, and his eyebrows are snow-white.  He has many wrinkles and a scar on his left cheek where a fishing net cable snapped and struck him in his face. From below his fisherman’s cap, his eyes are deep brown and full of life.   He watches the white caps roll into the bay and the large white clouds floating past like sails on ancient ships. Baltasan puffs his pipe, sees the smoke drift off in a northeasterly direction and smiles. “It’s a good day for fish.”

The screen door squeaks open and slams shut as his granddaughter, Antinea, steps onto the porch. She wipes her hands on her apron after having washed the dishes. Antinea is in her mid-forties and cares for her grandfather. She cooks and cleans for him, makes sure he pays his bills, and ensures that he takes his medications. At his age, Baltasan sometimes forgets. The wind tosses her slightly greying hair as she shields her eyes with her hand. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it, Grandpa?” Baltasan squints his left eye as he looks at her and smiles. He wishes Antinea was married instead of wasting her life on him. He feels he is just a burden to her. She should have a house full of kids of her own.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Baltasan shakes his head. He returns his gaze to the azure sea.

“Uh oh, Grandpa, I know that look! You’re thinking about going sailing, aren’t you.” Her grandfather grins, and as he rubs his chin in guilt, Antinea can hear his whiskers rasp. “You know I don’t like you sailing by yourself. It makes me nervous. What if something should happen, uh?” Baltasan holds his hands up in protest as much as in defense. “I know, I know, but I won’t be leaving the bay. It’s safe in the bay. There are lots of people around. And besides, it’s not too deep, and I’ll be bottom fishing, not sailing.”   Pressing his palms together, Baltasan pleads, “Please? Could you drive me down the hill to my boat, my beautiful grandchild?”

Antinea places her hands firmly on her ample hips and frowns. “You’re such a lousy flatterer. If I agree, you must take the cell phone I gave you just in case I need to contact you. Okay?” Baltasan rubs his hands together gleefully and agrees before getting up from the porch swing.

On their way to the docks, Antinea arranges to pick her grandfather up around four-thirty. “That gives you plenty of time to fish. But listen to me. Don’t bring any fish home.  The freezer is already full of fish! If you catch any more, they’ll just go to waste, understand?” Baltasan nods his head and starts to get out of the car. Antinea grabs his jacket and pulls him back to kiss his cheek. “I love you, Grandpa. Have fun and be careful!”

“I will, I promise,” Baltasan says as he takes his gear out of the backseat of the car. “See you soon!” He walks down the wooden boardwalk until he comes to the slip where his boat is moored. It’s a small sailboat, a dinghy. It’s about ten feet long and can hold two good-sized men. He bought it with his brother, Alvaro, who is dead now. Alvaro was working on a commercial boat in the North Sea when it was hit by a rogue wave that washed him overboard. His body was never found. So sad. Baltasan blesses himself at the memory.

After Baltasan has stored his rod and tackle, he heads for the bait shop. As he walks down the dock, Baltasan smiles.  This is his real home, the sea. He loves the smell of the bay, the bickering of the gulls, and the sound of the waves rushing up onto the sand and hissing as they retreat again. Baltasan stops to watch some sandpipers playing tag with the waves.

The bell over the bait shop door tinkles as Baltasan enters. The shop owner behind the counter calls out when he sees who it is. “Well, if it isn’t Baltasan Amaral! I haven’t seen you in a while.  How have you been?”

“Oh, I’m fine. My granddaughter doesn’t like me to fish alone. She thinks I’m too old to sail.”

“She’s right! You are old.  Besides, she loves you. I’ll get you your bait.” 

“Thanks, and can I get a gallon of drinking water, too?” Baltasan asks while looking around the store. The bait shop looks as you’d expect. Fish nets hanging from the ceiling full of plastic fish and sea creatures. On the walls are buoys and ship wheels, and the aisles are lined with fishing supplies. The owner returns and places a container of sea worms and a jug on the counter. Baltasan strokes his chin and smiles, showing the gap where he is missing an eyetooth. It’s a small jug of wine.

“Be sure to bring back the jug and the cork, and there will be no charge for you, my friend. Oh! Don’t use the cork for a bobber. It makes the wine taste fishy.” Baltasan scoops up his bait and the jug and agrees to return it after fishing. “One more thing, Baltasan. Did you hear that there may be a gale this afternoon? It’s only a chance, but you had better keep an eye out. If it starts to rain, I’ll call Antinea to come and get you, ya?”

Baltasan is in a hurry now to get going before the storm.

He stores the bait and the wine under the pilot’s seat and unties the mooring line. Using his oar, Baltasan pushes away from the dock to set his sail. He unfastens the rope that holds the sail closed and unwinds the halyard. Baltasan watches as he hauls the sail up to ensure the clips holding it to the mast run smoothly up the groove. About three-quarters of the way up, it snags. Baltasan lowers it a little and tries again. It is still stuck. “Ahh!” Baltasan grumbles. “It must need grease. I’ll have Cosme from the repair shop look at it when I return.” Baltasan gives one more big tug in frustration, and the line breaks free. “Good, good. Now I can fish!”

To Baltasan, the port seems busier than usual, so he sets sail to the far side of the bay. The water is a little deeper but definitely less congested. The day is passing slowly, and Baltasan is enjoying himself immensely. The fish are biting, and the little dinghy is bobbing up and down in place. The boom swings gently from side to side, causing the boat to rock like a cradle. Baltasan takes a sip of wine while looking to the west. He sees a gathering of clouds taking place. Wiping his lips with the back of his hand, he thinks, “ Must be the storm the shop owner told me about. It looks like it might pass, though.” Baltasan should have known that gales move fast. Instead, he continues fishing—a mistake that is about to cost him.

The charging gale wind hits the main sail with the force of a speeding freight train, nearly capsizing the boat.   Baltasan scrambles to haul in his anchor. It’s stuck fast in the rocks. Pulling his knife from his belt, he cuts the line. The sailboat immediately speeds off into the open ocean. The driving rain makes it difficult for Baltasan to see as he manhandles the rudder. The sail is billowing and floundering back and forth in the strong gale winds. Dodging the boom swinging wildly, Baltasan decides the best thing to do is to lower the sail and ride out the storm. He pulls on the halyard, which is firmly stuck at the top of the mast. Cursing, Baltasan jerks and snaps the rope to no avail. He grabs the dangling rope line on the boom to tie it off on a cleat. A sudden strong gust of wind blows the sail into the side of Baltasan’s head, crushing his temple.

                                                                  …

Baltasan regains consciousness to the sound of someone calling his name. “Wake up, Baltasan! The storm is over!” Baltasan shields his eyes from the sun and asks, “Who are you? Where am I?”

“What?  Do you mean to say you don’t even know your own brother?” the stranger laughs.

“You can’t be my brother. My brother is dead.” Baltasan struggles to sit up.

“I think you had better clear your eyes and then tell me I’m not Alvaro Amaral!” Baltasan takes another look and then grabs his brother by his shoulders. “Alvaro! It’s you. It’s truly you! But how? You died at sea!” Alvaro looks his brother in the eyes and frowns.

“I hate to tell you this, Baltasan, but so have you.” Baltasan knits his eyebrows together and firmly rejects the idea. “No! No, I’m alive!  Look at me.”   Baltasan holds his arms out for Alvaro to inspect. 

“During the storm, do you remember feeling a sharp pain here?” Alvaro asks, pointing to his head. Baltasan remembers a sharp pain but can’t remember anything else after that.

“That’s when the boom hit you hard on your temple.  It was a deadly blow, Baltasan. Antinea called the Autoridade Maritma Nacional to search for you after the storm. They found you and our sailboat smashed upon the rocks about three miles down the coastline. They told Antinea that when they found you, you still had the halyard wrapped around your hand, and they had to pry your other hand off the rudder. Alvaro places his hands on his hips and says proudly, “Ah, a true sailor right to the end.”

Baltasan takes his hat off and hangs his head sadly. “I’m dead. Well, doesn’t that beat all? What do we do now, Alvaro?”

“Now? Now we set sail west into the setting sun.”

“And what will happen after that? Tell me I want to know.”

“After that, we pull ashore on the beaches of Paradise! The place of no more sorrow.”

Baltasan smiles broadly, showing his missing eyetooth. “And no more tears!  Let’s raise the sail, bother, for I am anxious to get there!”

As Baltasan raises the sail, a gentle breeze billows it out, and a soft voice whispers in the wind, “Home. I’m taking you home.”