The Mood of the Sea

The boats came in one by one against a backdrop of late afternoon sun. Weary fishermen in slickers and hip boots shading their eyes and shouting orders began preparing to download the day's catch, their sunburnt faces all smiles. It had been a good day for fishing.

I stood on the breakwater, a shiny quarter in my hand. Haddock, Nana had told me and made me repeat it, A nice, fresh haddock, no cod or halibut. She was planning on fish chowder for supper and only haddock would do. The boats began tying up, the fishermen waving at the waiting factory workers and good naturedly wrangling for their place in line. I could smell fresh fish and gasoline fumes, salt spray washed up against the pilings, motors idled like giant purring cats. Catches were unloaded, weighed in, tallied - the work would go on for several hours, probably until after dark when all the holds were emptied. Decks would be washed down with salt water and the boats would be moored until the next morning when it would start all over again. It was hard work, dawn to dusk, backbreaking, blue collar work with few rewards, all dependent on the generosity of the sea.

My brother and I waited patiently, staying out of the way. The first boat finished its unloading and the crew climbed the rusty iron ladder to the top of the breakwater, greeting everyone with rough laughter and the satisfaction of a good catch. Nana wants a haddock, my brother told them and I held out my quarter. We waited while they found an adequate fish, wrapped it in newspaper and tied it with string, then handed over the coin and began to make our way carefully off the slippery wharf. The gulls were circling overhead and screeching and we never saw or heard John Sullivan's old black lab until it was too late - the dog came bounding down the planks and skidded toward us, my brother sidestepped, lost his balance and went over the side with a frantic yell, followed immediately by the old dog.

The dog easily swam to the shore but it took Long John and a grappling hook to retrieve my little brother - he was unceremoniously hauled out of the water, coughing and spitting salt water and fish guts, and deposited back on the breakwater, much to the amusement of the fishermen and factory workers. Long John scooped him up with one flannel shirted arm and me with the other, and without a word carried us both home. Accident, he told Nana gruffly, trying to hide a smile, Reckon he swallowed more'n was good for him. No harm.

My grandmother, a wise woman who knew a thing or two about old dogs and fishermen and who also had a clear view of the breakwater from the sunporch, nodded. Dog ok? she asked mildly and John shrugged, Swims like a fish that one, he said dryly, just ain't too bright on land. Laughingly, my grandmother stripped my brother down and wrapped him in towels, took the haddock and laid it on the counter. By the time she turned back, John was gone, headed down the side path to the road, uncharacteristically whistling, with the old black lab trotting at his side. Later that evening she told me that none of the men who spent all their time in boats could swim a lick, It's superstition, she said quietly, They think it would be tempting fate. You never can tell about the mood of the sea.