by Ibrahim Azam
O’Neill watched the sun peek over the horizon. The first of its rays had bled through the sky. Brady looked back at the village, shrinking out of sight as they pushed the johnboat further into the water.
It was a cold morning. The wind was callous, hitting both men in the face, spattering pockets of seawater with each strike. Unruffled, O’Neill began preparing the fishing rods. Three decades parading this ocean, he thought. And I ain’t letting some rookie slow me down.
He glanced back at Brady, whose gaze was still affixed behind him.
“There’s plenty of people back there who need feeding, son. So, we’ll stay out here, all day if we need to, catch what we catch. Take it home, split the bill.” The gruff fisherman waited for affirmation. “You hard of hearing, son?” He grumbled.
“No, sir.”
“Well get off your ass! Eyes on the water, cast your line,”
“Yes, sir.”
Brady rose. O’Neill cast his line. The younger man followed suit.
The light of the sun now stretched through the sky. Neither man had even a whisper of good fortune. O’Neill’s stomach growled at him as he studied the sea ahead. “Any luck?” He grunted.
“No, sir.”
Brady sat, upright, clutching the rod firmly, seemingly unshaken by the time that was slipping away. O’Neill’s brows furrowed. “For a kid who skipped breakfast, you’re zingy, all right,” he scoffed.
“I need the money, sir.”
“Don’t we all?”
“I suppose so. But I got married last month, and my wife’s getting hungry, too.”
Wife? O’Neill muttered to himself. A boy out at sea, keeping a girl happy back home?
“Well, kid, we’ve all got mouths to feed and bills to pay. And we all have or had or wanna have a girl waiting at shore.”
The wind picked up again. As his grip on the rod eased, Brady began to twist the wedding ring that was wrapped around his finger. O’Neill’s lips curled. “You better start catchin’. That new girl of yours needs feeding. Don’t just let any man out here catch what’s yours.”
Brady lifted his head, glaring coldly at the old man. “And who are you catching for?”
It was Brady’s turn to await an answer, but the brash smirk on O’Neill’s face softened. He retreated, casting another line out off the end of the johnboat. He started to get lost in all that dark blue. The same dark blue that paid his bills and fed his belly for three decades. The sea always moved forward, and O’Neill with it. Never back. He stared intently for his reflection. For any sign of the living, breathing, blood-pumping years he had given to the sea. He couldn’t find one.
It was just the dark blue water, and an old johnboat lumbering on through.
Brady brought his rod out of the water and propped a sympathetic hand on the old man’s shoulder. “There’s always tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” O’Neill retorted. “We ain’t all got tomorrow. Take care of that girl, kid. Don’t mind an old fool.”
The sun began to wane, and the two men brought the johnboat back to shore.
© Ibrahim Azam
Ibrahim Azam is a poet, writer and teacher of media studies. His journalistic work has been published by the BFI, The Face and The Film Magazine. He is currently working on a variety of poems, short stories and other works of fiction.
Find out more on Instagram @ibrahims.notes.
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