Seascraper

by Benjamin Wood

Now he’s out a mile from where he started, give or take, and he can see it up ahead – the sea’s white lip, another mile away. The sight of it is more familiar than the wisps of his own breath upon the air. It never used to foul his mood this much, the cold, the loneliness, the graft, but that was long before he harboured any aspirations for himself besides what he was raised to want. He used to think it was enough to fill the whiskets up with shrimp each morning and accept the cash for them by afternoon. Providing is surviving – that’s what Pop would tell him, and what else should any man desire? Perhaps a wife, if he could find one that’d have him. Roof above his head. Big pantry cupboards stocked to keep his loved ones fed. A special drop of brandy now and then, and evenings in the pub. Well, surely he could do no better with his life than that? Except, these past few years, he’s come to understand: he settled for too little. Everything he puts his mind to when he isn’t on the beach – rehearsing songs on his guitar and rearranging them – that’s when he feels most alive, that’s when he’s at his best.

‘All right, Ma. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean it.’ ‘You’ll be sorry when I’m dead and gone, I know that much. You’ll miss me. And you’ll even miss my aches and pains.’ ‘I’ll miss your cooking most of all.’ She feigns her indignation, throwing the dishcloth at his face with perfect aim. It slops along his nose and hits the floor tiles. ‘Shut your trap,’ she says, but with a grin.

That’s why Pop would say the biggest catches are the ones you can’t be there to make. The mind will taunt itself by dwelling on the could’ve beens – no good will ever come from those regrets.

In his life so far, he’s come across two reasons for a good man’s failings: either he’s a drinker on the quiet, like Pop was, trying to numb the bruises on his heart to get him through the week, or else he’s trying to cope without a remedy at all. And even if these reasons don’t apply to Edgar Acheson, some fellas are deserving of the extra rope you give them.

But listen, Tom – it’s not so easy. When you’re young, you think life is a string of choices. It’s either you choose this door or the other door, or jump out of the window. You don’t realise that most of what’ll happen to you is because of other people’s choices. There’s a door already opened for you, so you walk straight through it, and you wonder how you wound up on the fire escape. That’s life, I’m telling you. Don’t bother getting older. Art’s the only way I’ve ever had of making any sense of it.’

Some day, if I’m lucky and I have a kid or two myself, and I believe they’re good at something – even if it’s laying bricks or catching shrimp like me – they’ll have my full support until the end. I’d never let a day go by they didn’t know that I believed in them. It doesn’t matter how much money it’d cost me. Any child of mine’d be worth helping, and I think the same of yours. I’ve only known him for a day, that’s true, but I feel better for it. I’m not sure I was awake before he came along.’