Fisherman's Watch

His name was John Sullivan but we all called him Long John Silver. He and his brother kept their fishing boat just across the road from us in a place we were forbidden to go and where we naturally spent as much time as possible. He was a large man and usually a silent one. Early every morning he and brother headed out to sea and late every afternoon they returned, unloaded their catch, and pulled the old boat ashore. Late at night we could see the glow of soft, yellow lights and - very faintly - hear music coming from the boat. Sea songs, mostly and occasionally, one of the old Baptist hymns that we sang in church.

Every Saturday night, Long John trudged across the road to our house. He carried a yoke with a bucket on either side and walked slowly and patiently, the measured steps of a man who is accustomed to the path. My grandmother would be at the screen door in the back of the house and as he passed she would nod to him and say "Evenin', John." and he would stop, put down the yoke, tip his cap and reply "Evenin', m'am." and then resume his pace. His objective was the well where he would fill both buckets, replace the yoke on his shoulders and carry the water back the way he had come. To wash with, cook with, I never knew but it was a Saturday night ritual and it never varied.

On Sunday afternoons John and his brother worked on their nets. They would sit on overturned kegs and repair the tears, replace the hooks. Both wore fishing boots with the tops turned down, flannel shirts over
long underwear and ragged, faded trousers. They rarely spoke or acknowledged us except for the now and again reprimand " Mind yer footin' there, missy." When the nets were baited and ready for the next day, John would pull out his pipe or his tobacco and papers and lean back against the shack and smoke silently while he looked out across the water.

He was doing just that when I stepped on the nail. It went clear through my foot and I went down in a tangle of old boards and fishing line, screaming bloody murder and terrified. John was on his feet in an instant and I was being carried in his arms the next. He produced bandages and disinfectant, extracted the nail in one swift gesture, wrapped the wound and carried me to the doctor's house up island - all in perfect silence. And then he carried me home. Just before we came in sight of the house he said very quietly, "You'll not be tellin' yer folks about this, missy...it were my fault."

News travels fast in small fishing villages, even ones without telephones and as my mother was on the mainland that night, my grandmother met us at the back door. John carried me into the sunporch, had a hushed and brief conversation with Nana and was gone. The incident was never mentioned again. I spent a few days inside, and although we had more visitors than usual for the next week, John Sullivan wasn't one of them.

Protectors of children are everywhere in this world. They find you when you need them the most.