The Sea and the Summer Soltice

The Sea and the Summer Solstice

By: Felix Perry

He sat alone at the end of the pier he watched the ebony darkness of night once again struggle against the more powerful forces of light. He shivered as a slight Atlantic breeze, a remnant perhaps of the last of spring’s breathe blowing down the narrows. As he continued to watch the horizon began unfolding, first in muted pastel shades of pink water melon colour with slight streaks of orange, red and finally yellow as the sun overpowered the night to bring in another summer morning. The man took a sip of his Tim Horton’s coffee and continued to watch as a parade of fishing boats chugged their way out of the small fishing port of Eastern Passage on their way to open water to run their lines and haul nets as their fathers and grandfathers had done before them. A bell buoy sounded out past the harbour mouth as if to say: “Good luck fella’s and fair winds.”

The third boat in line appeared to have spotted the old man and gave a long blast of his air horn. The boat, painted in bright shades of yellow with white trim rode the waves like an old pro. The old man couldn’t see it but he knew the name on her bow would read “Passage Pride” and his heart felt just that, a glow of warmth for the unity and beauty of man, boat and sea. Today was June 21^st and summer solstice, the longest day of the year and how he wished he were on that boat to once again hear the gulls squawk and screech overhead, feel the rise and fall of the deck boards below his feet, and feel the elation of a good catch in the hold. Alas, it was on a day like this eight long years ago that his sea-faring days had come to an inglorious end.

His son now skippered the “Passage Pride” and weathered fair weather and foul to fish the banks that he knew so well. He had taught the boy the trade his own father had taught him. Since little James was old enough to see over the wheelhouse glass…aye…even before that. The old man grinned remembering the wooden fish box the boy would stand on to take the wheel under his father’s guidance. He had taught James about the tides, the buoys, the currents, where the fish were at different times of the year, how to bait trawl and how to haul ass when the horizon gave clues to an impending squall. He liked to think he had instilled in James and undying love of the ocean but also a respect of its often murderess fury. A fury that had caused the old man a heavy cost in his later years.

The old man’s hands massaged his upper legs as if he could somehow bring life back to the withered and atrophied limbs that once held him upright beside his son but now were only useless baggage. With a heavy heart he remembered the morning as if it was only days ago and not years. It had started out like most days…up when it was still dark, tea with Carnation milk and sugar, a hearty big breakfast on the table and a quick hug and kiss from his wife. Wanda, his high school sweet-heart and he had followed this routine now for the past thirty years and it was always the same mixed bag of emotions for him. The thrill of doing a job he loved and fear that the day would bring disaster to his little world. Over the years he had too many men lost at sea, taken by Nor’easters’, boats iced up and turned turtle and deep down her knew with each trip he increased the odds of it being his turn.

It wasn’t the storms or the rocks, or the icing that imprisoned him to shore though…it was human error. On that morning, another morning of a summer solstice he had no idea what fate awaited him. As he navigated the little boat out to the banks where he had heard from his neighbour that halibut were schooling, he sang an old song well known by most people of Nova Scotia, or Bluenosers as they were sometimes referred to. Ironically, it was a song called Barrette’s Privateers. A sea shanty about a young privateer who had lost both his legs when a cannon had exploded. The captain and crew fished most of the early morning hours upon reaching the banks and they were hauling in the last of their trawls when the sound of a crack and a piercing shriek filled the air. The line that broke under the heavy haul whipped out across the deck striking the captain across his lower back knocking the man to the deck. James, then only a lad of nineteen after managing to get his father into the bunk of the cuddy cabin, sedated his moaning father with Tylenol and some black rum turned him over to another crew member while at full throttle he made his way back to the Passage. His father survived the accident but would never again walk the decks of his beloved “Passage Pride”.

The old Captain finally, almost grudgingly, turned and headed back towards the parking lot where his daughter sat waiting in the idling mini-van to take him back to the old homestead. His wife of forty odd years would be waiting breakfast for him. As he waited for the wheel chair lift to lower. He looked back over his shoulder hoping for another glimpse of his and now his son’s boat but it was already out past Land’s End and a mere dot bobbing on the crests of the waves. A tear fell silently from his eyes, eyes almost hidden in the worn leathery face of a sailor. Eyes that had squinted through fog, rain and snow searching for familiar land marks and light houses over the years. No fancy electronics back in his day, no GPS, no computer charts or fancy phones. It was a compass and a paper chart and a prayer to God to watch over them and bring them safely back home with a bountiful harvest. Home to the loved ones who waited with fear until their husbands and fathers walked through the door and into their arms.

“Are you okay Dad?” his daughter said, looking back at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Aye me darlin’, just reminiscing of the old days and other summer solstices I lived through. Let’s go home…”

The End