Bobbing
The storm grew dark and the sea grew green. Waves ten feet tall sloshed over the quay. Crates were thrown against the stone. Thunder roared.
In the café, Benny watched it all. He got terribly sea sick and couldn’t go out with his grandfather. What a life, the sea sick son of a sailor. He didn’t like swimming. Father had never been kind about it, but his grandfather understood.
All the ships were in. All but one. He saw it, out in the bay, fighting the water. Bobbing in the heaving waves.
He should have been out there.
He should have been.
A bobber in a calm pond. A warm hand on his back. Up and down. Up and down. Advise gently given.
Joy.
Perfect joy right up until he reeled in the fish and saw that gasping face of a fish. A quick whack and the thing was dead.
Bobbing. Bobbing.
A wave rose up, the boat vanished from view.
Bobbing. It rose from the water, water rolling off the glass.
He couldn’t see the only sailor on that ship.
The ship bobbed in the water, swallowed by another wave.
He didn’t see it again.
Michael Frutig 