When Sea Horses Ride A short story of the sea
It was an old house. Time and the harsh sea wind and salt-laden mist had stripped it of all signs of brightness. Yet it still possessed a quaint charm, the way antiquated seaside cottages often do. It was the kind of place which visitors, passing through the village in their fast, fancy cars, would slow to look at. It was as if it reminded them of their own humble beginnings in life, or perhaps of a place they had never known, yet always longed for.
The old man tending the flowers in its tiny garden was very much like the house. His face showed the ravages of years spent on the sea, his eyes clear and blue, not ideally suited to the dazzle of sunlit water, and the creases of skin around them showed the suffering caused by the way of life he'd chosen. There was pain there too, caused not by the sea and the sun, but by life itself. They were eyes that smiled easily, but they could not completely hide the suffering he'd known.
A cat, his coat of fur rough and patchy, watched with his one good eye as the old man plucked at weeds clinging resolutely to the arid soil. They'd been together a long time, the cat and the old man. They were both battered, time-ravaged males, both of them rogues in the good old days, when females of their respective species had enjoyed their harsh masculinity.
The cat yawned and sucked its toothless gums. It was warm on the wall where it lay, a nice lazy day for growing old in. It watched its master a while longer before it turned onto its side and stared at the sea. Down there, a mere hundred yards from the cottage wall, where the old harbour jutted out from under the cruel cliffs, were the racks where they had hung the fish to dry. The cat's stomach rumbled at the memory of the many he'd stolen. He remembered too, the windy afternoon when a fisherman had caught him at it and flayed him with an oar. It had cost him his eye.
Now, he could only think of the delicious dried fish, for his toothless state prohibited the eating of them. In any case, there were no longer any fish to be dried; there hadn't been for years. The harbour held only rotting carcasses of rowing boats, empty drying racks and the stone huts where they had cleaned the fish for sale. And memories of course; the place was filled with them.
The cat turned around and watched the old man hold his aching back. Of course, he couldn't understand when the man walked over and said, "You're getting fat and lazy, Harrison. Just like me." But he understood the gnarled hand which stroked his fur, so he curled onto his back, inviting the caress to be extended to his stomach. "You sound like one of those damn diesel trawlers," his master said when the cat started purring loudly.
The old man stroked the cat he called Harrison a while longer, then stepped through the squeaking gate at the back of the cottage and walked towards the edge of the cliff. He looked back once to see whether Harrison was following, but as he'd guessed, the cat was just too damn lazy to move from the wall. It lay on its back, probably making believe it was still being stroked.
The man looked down at the old harbour and smiled. How often hadn't he watched tourists scrambling down the steep slope to poke around in the huts, fiddle with the boats or just wander around the place and guess at the kind of men who had plied their trade from the crumbling jetty? Guessing was all they could do. But the old man – he'd been there from the start.
He could vividly recall what it was like in the old days, when the townsfolk made their way to the harbour in the late afternoon to wait for the laden boats to come in. He could still hear the relieved laughter when the first of the boats rounded the edge of the tall cliffs and the men raised their oars to wait for the right wave on which to ride through the narrow harbour entrance. With split-second timing, they'd row furiously to keep pace with the rushing water as their boat sped through the surf and ground to a halt in the shallows.
Perhaps some tourists could sense these things, but the old man wondered how many were aware of the tragedies that seemed to have seeped their mournful way into the rock and concrete and rotting wood structures.
Perhaps some tourists, those more sensitive to these things, could stand there and look at the towering cliffs and at the sea breaking angrily over the short jetty and know that men had died here. They might turn and look back at the stone cleaning huts and picture the women standing in the stormy rain, praying anxiously for the safety of their menfolk being tossed about on the violent sea.
They might even be able to visualise the little children clinging fearfully to their mothers' dresses. It was possible that when the wind churned wistfully through the rock enclave, they imagined hearing the pitiful cries when the first boat broke through the rushing water and sped to safety, and the men clambered out and glanced with sad eyes at the other grim-faced men who hadn't ventured out on the sea that awful day. And the men, those who had tested the elements and survived, would shake their heads and turn to look, almost apologetically, at the new widows. There was never any need to say which boat had gone down.
The old man knew of these things, and of how the men who had stayed at home could feel guilt about being alive. And how they would place strong arms about the widows' shoulders and try their best to comfort the children who were crying because their mothers were. The men cried too, but inside themselves, from fear of the day when other men would comfort their widows.
The old man looked down at the sea. It was calm today, friendly and inviting. He wished he was young enough to take out a boat, a proper boat, a rowing boat. He wanted to feel the smooth wood of the oars in his strong hands, wanted to put his back into the rowing and feel the boat move forward and mount the light swell. He wished he could see the water shimmer and splash lightly as the oars dipped into its surface in a practised rhythm. Ah, it was a good feeling!
Because he could only dream about it the way Harrison dreamed about his dried fish, he curbed his thoughts and stared instead at the old harbour. He could see all of it from where he stood. He smiled as his gaze settled on boat number 23, Sea Horse. It was white, and the only boat in good repair, even though it would never again challenge the power of the sea. Sea Horse belonged to the old man.
He smiled again, thinking of how he'd fought with his wife over the name. "How can you say it's silly?" she'd demanded when he'd rejected her suggestion. "The white caps on the waves are called sea horses, and the boat is white. I want to stand here on the cliff and see you on top of the waves. Just like a sea horse." He'd given in because he loved her.
There were no sea horses in the bay this day. And his Sea Horse lay twenty yards from the water's edge, a reminder of other days. Happy days. Sad days.
The old man wondered what would happen to Sea Horse once he was dead. Yes, he had to face up to that now. "Ah, Magda," he said aloud as the thought of dying reminded him of his wife, "I don't know why I'm so damned scared of it. I'm old and I'm tired and I want to be with you." He chuckled sadly, then said, "I only hope they allow me in!" He laughed again, both at the thought of his being rejected entry at the Pearly Gates and at his growing tendency to think aloud. "A sure sign of senility," he muttered to himself.
His gaze returned to the boat. Perhaps young Ben Oakson would look after Sea Horse. He always helped with the painting and sundry repairs. But Ben would finish school soon and go off to the army. He might not even come back; most of the kids left the village for good these days.
There was also talk about the harbour being restored and declared a historical monument. That would be a good thing, because it would mean that Sea Horse would be cared for, and it was right that the past be remembered. But the upkeep would take a great deal of money, and these monument committees or whatever they were called always had lots of excuses for not spending any. So the old man had his doubts about the whole scheme. Perhaps one day, when he was dead and Sea Horse had rotted away like the rest of the boats, some responsible person would push for monument status. But it might be too late.
They had even interviewed him once. It was a pretty young thing who had come all the way from Cape Town to talk to him about how the harbour had looked in the old days. "It will give us an idea of the restoration task," she said, looking very uncomfortable on the couch with the stuffing peeking through the soiled material and Harrison rubbing himself violently against her genuine leather boots.
He'd shown her a painting that Magda had done of the harbour. "That's what the place looked like," he'd said. "I think she did that around about ... could be 1920." He'd also added that they weren't married in those days, even though he could sense the pretty young thing wasn't really interested. "She looked a lot like you when she was your age," he'd said despite himself. "She was very beautiful."
The pretty young thing had given an embarrassed smile and shoved Harrison away with her boot, so the old man shut up after that and only responded when she asked a question. That had been five years ago, and nothing had happened since. He sighed at the memories stimulated by the thought of the woman, and was pleased when a trawler rounded the cliffs and broke his train of thought. He watched it roll lazily on the gentle sea. "You're too damned close to the land, you bastard," the old man muttered, hating the big boats which had brought change to his village and his life.
He had known it would happen sooner or later; they all had. They had watched in silent anger as the first of the trawlers ploughed its way down from Cape Town and raped their waters. They had known then that others would follow, throwing their nets deep into the sea and scooping up the small fish on which bigger ones fed. They came to hate the throb of diesel engines heralding the approach of the large boats.
They had fought against it, of course, first with words and then fists and even rifles one night. But they had known it was a battle they could never win. There was no way that words and fists and rifles and anger could overcome the cold logic of money. There were growing markets, both locally and abroad, and rowing boats and brave men could not meet the demands they made for larger and larger quantities of fish.
The old man had not blamed the fishermen who gave up the fight and supported the building of a new harbour to cater to the trawlers. He could understand their need to survive by accepting inevitable change. So he had wished them well when they stored their boats on the sloping harbour slipway and moved further up along the bay to where the trawlers, owned by big companies in Cape Town, needed skippers and crews. But he had not joined them.
Once, he went to the new harbour and watched the large boats ready themselves for a ten day stint at sea. On the rocks high above, there was bustling activity as the first of the fish canning factories was erected. The factories and the boats belonged to the men in Cape Town, the ones with the money, and the sight angered the old man so much that he never returned to the place.
He carried on taking out Sea Horse with the help of four crew, but they were forced to venture far beyond the limits of the bay to catch fish which were normally found closer inshore.
At last his was the only boat left, the sole operator out of the old harbour. And then his crew, some of them with obvious shame, announced they were going to work on the trawlers. He could not match the pay of the big boats and nor did the diminishing quantity of fish enable them to make a decent living, so the old man had watched them walk up the steep harbour slope for the last time.
He had felt so lost then. Sea Horse was too big for one man to take out, and he was forced to hire older schoolchildren and go out in the afternoons only. And then, suddenly, he knew he was too old to carry on, and Sea Horse was pulled up onto the harbour shelf for the last time.
The old man tore his angry gaze from the trawler and looked instead at his beloved boat. Right then, he wished he could die. He felt so tired, so empty. He wanted to die and be with Magda, but he knew too that it would mean the end of Sea Horse. And Harrison? What would happen to him? No one would want an old toothless cat with one eye. No, he couldn't die yet; he had to wait for Harrison to go first. He had a feeling it wouldn't be long now.
He sighed and turned away from the sight of the trawler and Sea Horse. He stroked Harrison fleetingly as he went through the gate that squeaked. The cat groaned sleepily.
He made himself tea in a tarnished teapot and drank it out in the afternoon sun in the front garden of the cottage. The postman, who should have retired years ago, pedalled past on his bicycle and called out, "Af'noon!" The old man raised a hand. He knew the man wouldn't stop at his gate; his children never wrote to him. And who else was there?
It was cooler now, so Harrison eased himself to his feet with a loud groan and forgot his age when he tried to jump from the wall. It resulted in an embarrassing plunge into the flowerbed. "Bloody fool," the old man muttered as the cat pretended that nothing untoward had happened. Then the animal dragged his aging limbs through the front gate and waddled awkwardly across the road.
A car cruised by and slowed as it passed the cottage. Tourists. The woman in the passenger seat stared at the old man and nodded. He nodded back and sipped his tea.
He was still there when the next car came along a quarter hour later. It was one of those sports jobs, although the old man didn't know what make it was. He didn't know much about cars at all, he’d never owned one either. They were for people with money.
The sports job slowed down, then braked sharply and came to a sudden stop. A tall man in an expensive looking tweed sports jacket jumped out and ran to the front of the car.
The old man knew what had happened. Ah Harrison, he thought – you bloody old fool! Life will be lonely without you.
His eyes were dry as he stood up and went through the front gate. The man in the sports jacket was pulling Harrison out from under the car. He saw the old man and got to his feet. "I'm sorry," he said, "... is it yours?"
"Yes. Harrison is mine." Oh, you dumb cat! You knew how damn slow you'd become!
"I'm sorry ... he just ... he ran right under the car. There was no way I could stop in time. I'm very sorry."
"Yes. It was his blind side, you see. Harrison had only one good eye."
"He's dead, I think. Is he?"
"Yes."
The old man knelt and picked up the ruined bundle of patchy fur, stained now with blood. He felt relieved; he wouldn't have been able to bear watching Harrison suffer. He turned away and carried his cat into the garden.
"I'm sorry," the stranger said a last time before getting into the car and driving off.
The sun was setting across the mountain when the old man dug a hole in the flowerbed at the back of the cottage. He placed Harrison in a wooden box and put it in the hole. He still did not cry when he shovelled in the dirt and picked some flowers to place on the old cat's grave.
He stood there for a while, not knowing whether he should say some words of farewell to his pet. He decided against it, because Harrison had not been a sentimental cat. He retrieved his teacup from the porch, washed it and placed it on the drying rack in the kitchen. Then he fetched a bulky sweater from his room, because Magda had always warned him about catching a cold at night.
The harbour was filled with shadow as he knocked the wood restraints from beneath Sea Horse. The old boat crashed onto the concrete and creaked and groaned as it slid down the slipway. The old man was relieved it slid all the way into the cold water, for he knew he did not have the strength to push it in. He let the boat drift on the calm water while he fetched a set of rotting oars from one of the huts.
When he returned, he noticed that water had already started seeping through the aged planking. So, he thought, he and young Ben Oakson hadn't done such a great job after all! It didn't matter; Sea Horse would float long enough to take him where he wanted to be.
A light breeze stirred across the high cliffs as he steered Sea Horse through the narrow harbour entrance. The oars creaked just the way they'd done in his thoughts over the last years, but his back ached and he struggled to find his old rhythm.
As he cleared the tall cliffs and Sea Horse breasted the first swells, he looked back at the decaying harbour which had been his life. High above it, he could see his cottage, reminding him of the many times he'd raced ahead of the storm, keeping his eyes on the kitchen light Magda always left on to help guide him when darkness fell. He'd always known she'd be standing by the gate that squeaked.
There was a light there now, because he knew Harrison was scared of the dark. A strange cat, that one! So, the light had not been left on by accident, the same way that Harrison had not been killed by accident. That damn cat had known his master was feeling old and tired and was missing his Magda. And he'd known he had to be the first to die. All he'd done was save them both some painful time.
"God bless you, Harrison," the old man said into the rising wind. "I've a feeling Magda and I'll have you with us ... up there." He chuckled and added, "That is, if the Big Guy will let cats in. And I hope he doesn't hold a few stolen fish against you!" He wondered whether he shouldn't have brought Harrison with him in Sea Horse. He thought not; the cat was terrified of the sea.
Sea Horse was awash with water now. It splashed up over his ankles and the cold made them ache. He stopped rowing and let the wind push the boat further out into the bay. His tears added their own trickle to the water at his feet.
He waited. He told himself it wouldn't be long before he and Magda and Harrison were together again.
As the water rushed in with increasing force and he had to grip the gunwales to stop the fearful shaking of his hands, he wondered whether God allowed boats into heaven.
He hoped so.
* * * *
ENDS
This short story was inspired by a scene from my novel, The Shouting of Men https://www.nevillesherriff.com/the-shouting-of-men/ (Opens in a new window)
For more of my writing, please visit: https://www.nevillesherriff.com (Opens in a new window)
