By Marcelo Medone
They say that the sea never returns what it swallows, but after all these years I still do not lose hope. Every morning I go to the shoreline and keep hoping for a miracle; then I go back in the afternoon. Two low tides a day make my life in Abandoned Bay less boring.
I am already old and my bones ache from the cold wind and the salt. My daughter Danielle begs me to go live with her in the city, far from the sea, but here I have my life and my memories, in this old cabin that once held laughter and the joy of living.
For some this place may be the end of the world, but for me it is the beginning of everything. My father and my grandfather before him were fishermen. Here I grew up and here I will die. It is my fate.
I stopped going out in my boat a long time ago. Anyway, nobody fishes around here anymore. They say the waters are polluted with oil and plastics and that the effects of overfishing will take years to reverse. Be that as it may, there are no more fish here.
When the tide recedes, I collect from the wet sand my little treasures of wood cured by salt water. Those may seem chunks of rather vulgar wood. For me, they constitute a precious harvest with which I produce driftwood crafts. Sometimes I find some remarkable pieces, which are already works of art without my intervention, although most of the time they are small pieces of worn-out wood that will make up a larger work with some skill.
Once a week I go to town in my old truck to sell my mirror frames and my decorations made with this wood. I do not get much, but it is enough to stop by old Shelley’s shop for some canned food, hardtack crackers, cheap bourbon whiskey and tobacco.
Danielle tells me that I must stop drinking and smoking, but I could not live without my little vices. Winters here are harsh and long. Luckily, I have my old Chester, a Border Collie who was one-eyed in a hailstorm, who accompanies me every time I go to the beach. Chester loves to chase seagulls along the shore, although he has never caught any. After a while, he comes over to me with his tongue hanging out, tired but happy, and helps me pick up the driftwood. He is more stubborn than I am and clings to life despite everything, although it will probably be my turn to bury him because he has already been fifteen years by my side. If I pass away before him, I do not know what would become of the poor fellow.
Besides keeping me company, Chester likes the music I make him listen to. I have my vintage vinyl records from when I was young. Rock and beach get along well, because of the rising and receding tides, the flow and ebb of the water that I always associated with a rocking motion. I can spend hours listening to Bruce Springsteen, Tom Waits and Bob Dylan, all with very personal voices. Every afternoon, I light a cigarette, play a record and sing along with my old heroes. Danielle says my voice is the same as Tom Waits’, perhaps a product of our shared vices. Sometimes, Chester joins the concert with his howls.
So, leave me here, in Abandoned Bay, admiring the infinite horizon over the water every day of my lonely life. I am not complaining, quite the contrary. It is just that I miss Georgina. I’ve been missing her for twenty years now, waiting for the day when she comes back drenched in salt water in her raw cotton dress, her long black hair entangled with starfish and mussels, her luminous smile eclipsing the sun, walking barefoot on the wet sand of the beach back in my skinny and longing arms. Now, I know that I was wrong to underestimate her sorrow and her melancholy.
Life does not give second chances. Maybe Danielle is right, and I have already paid my debt to her mother. As long as I have strength, I will continue to wait for her with every tide.
Marcelo Medone (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a Pushcart Prize nominee fiction writer, poet, essayist, playwright and screenwriter. He received numerous awards and was published in multiple languages in more than 50 countries around the world, including the US. He currently lives in Montevideo, Uruguay. Facebook: Marcelo Medone / Instagram: @marcelomedone
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