Into the Sea

1

The fisherman laughed, and bent to pick up his net, also freeing himself from the rat faced man's grip. "I fear I would drive off all your customers." He turned, and spoke over his shoulder. "Tell your boss I will have his money by the end of the month."

"That's three more days, Hao Min," the rat faced man called after him. But the fisherman was already striding down the dock and away.

*~*~*~*~*~*

He sailed round the point again, and instead of making for his small cottage, all alone on the shore, he decided to set lines and fish for the rest of the afternoon.

It was still not yet midday, and the wind had picked up, causing the wave tops to froth and bits of foam to fly. It was a cool wind, as it was still early in the springing season, but if the fisherman lay down in his boat, the sides would block out the wind, leaving only the warm sun to touch his skin.

The fisherman did this, unrolling a woven rush mat he kept under the tiller seat. He was tired after all the human contact he had this morning. Usually he went days without seeing anyone, let alone talking to them.

Warm sun on his skin and with the wind whistling just above, he was soon asleep.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The fisherman dreamed, and in his dream there was the sea.

He saw the sea in every season. In the summer, when the waves were blue and deep, and the fish plentiful. He saw the sea in the bronzed season, when long orange sunsets ignited the waves to copper and fire.

He saw it, and sailed on it, in the freezing season, when the sea sunk to dark navy, and the cold north wind turned the spray to sharp ice crystals that froze to his hair and cheeks. He saw it in the springing season, when the sea was the soft green of a birds egg, and topped with broken white peaks from the warm southern winds. And he saw an enjoyed it in the raining season, when the water was slate grey like the sky, and the rain bounced and skipped off the waves.

The fisherman lived by the sea, he worked on it. He breathed it, tasted it. He knew it as a man knows a woman, her moods, her vices, all her petty desires. How she looked first thing in the morning, and the soft sounds she made at night.

He knew the sea, that was without question. But for some reason when he dreamt of the sea, something felt wrong.

In the dream he stood on the shore, staring out at the waves as he often did. The clouds above matched the waves below in color and choppy consistency. A storm was coming.

Normally such a scene would be cause for the fisherman to turn around and stride back up the beach. To hang his nets beneath the eves by the door, and return inside to wait out the ocean's tempestuous mood by the fire.

But in his dream, instead of returning to his small home, he walked toward the waves that crashed, upon the shore. They crashed, higher and louder, louder and higher, as he got closer. Roaring beasts breaking at the edge of their cages.

Into the furious waves the fisherman walked.

The waves closed above his head, and their roaring muffled. He knew he was in a dream, for instead of sweeping him away in the tow as they should of, the waves just barely tugged at his sleeves. His breath, that should have been forced out of him in great gasping bubbles of air, continued to come easily, as though it was water he had breathed all his life.

He kept walking.

Down, down, unsure what was beneath his feet. Was it water? Was it sand? Stone? What did it matter?