CASUALTY It’s funny how my sister latched onto this idea after my father passed over the horizon that he would be speaking to her through the elements from now on and the sky outside her window and the sea off the Cape of Good Hope and the ships afloat on that sea, floating as it were between the sea and the sky, depending on the first light, and the cloud formation, and the visibility. It must have been that many times from her window it would appear that those were no ships at all but ghost ships, phantoms passing in and out from the night. And it made me think, taking my first walk that night, my first drive into first light. When the vehicle dropped us off next to the beach and we passed by a path through the dunes onto the sand and saw her there, angled against the tide, the breakers pushing in and bursting into white foam against the hull. And further out, like stadium lights, the battery of high beams pushing through from the tug, attached already to the bow, and pulling on the line. When she said that it was Dad that had sent that ship and Dad that would see us safely home. Sure enough, Dad was an ocean going man, and a harbour man, and a man of steel and ships. A fitter and turner, and a metal worker, at home with nuts and bolts. Who took it as far as to get on a boat one day, with his tools, and take it as far as the birthplace of ships, where they fitted them together in the dry docks. And cutting his tools as it were upon British steel, and Scottish keels, and cutting them just fine. And later, with a first child, and a second, and a wife no stranger to docks and ports, and war ships sleeping quietly in the bay. And taking that toddler out to the wharf, to the harbour edge, to the pier. And exposing her to a little of that salt and grease and oil. And exposing her to the rumble of the diesels, and the great power behind the wheels and levers, and the thousands of horses, the tens of thousands, attached to the ship by a line. Tugboat Dad he was to us in the bath, and in life too, pulling away at us always, pulling us away from the rocks. And guiding us where he could into the harbour, and guiding us out. And treating us lovingly in those steelworker hands, soft little item s of flesh and blood in that bath. And handling us gently, with gentle hands, and soft and loving always, like those nudges from the tugs upon the cheeks of the great ocean liners. Guiding them in, escorting them, in and out from the deeper waters. Then at last, being stranded himself, foundering in the storm, and having his motor die and having the waves cast him up onto the shore. Having the elements push him all the way in, dragging the anchor. Having him rest there at last upon his side, at an angle. And having nothing but the hope of a lifeline to take him back off from the sand. Ah, the tug must come for us all, and stop us before we come to ground, or come for us once we have given up all hope and the land has taken us back for her own. And to get her off, to float her again, that is now the job of a man, and of a will, and of horsepower. And that line, so much like a noose in many ways, and so much like a hangman’s rope, it must take a hold of us now at that place where the anchor failed and begin to turn us back into the wind and into the waves. But we are casualties now, we are in the hands of the gods, in the hands of the earth, and the elements. The sea is playing with us and the sky is distant, detached and disinterested. We are flotsam, jetsam, cast off from the tides, cast out as the prophet upon the beach from the belly of the whale. And there is no home here, no pathway back, and the trench we are digging for ourselves is our grave. So we find ourselves at last in that place, in that resting position of the soul. Where after the storms and the winds and the rains we find ourselves given over to shallows. And the small fish come to kiss our fingers and the hermit crabs seek a home. And the man on two legs, who stands on the shore, he sees what, a carcass? Or some hulk perhaps, or an ark, stranded on top of a mountain. And he sees himself too, come to rest at last. And the word outcast, or the word reject, or the word casualty somehow fits the scene, as a boxer perhaps knocked down to the canvas. Is there anything more pitiful, at last, than a ship gone to earth, or a vessel being taken for a shell? True we leave our shells behind, we leave our earthen vessels. But there is something sad, and tragic, about being not quiet dead yet, and keeping your hope alive. Like an elephant bull cast out from the herd, or an Eskimo mother sent out to die, so is the man at last who finds himself stranded, and at the mercy of the elements. But I’m praying still, and I’m hoping, and I’m believing for that life. And I’m pulling with that tugboat still, and willing her out from the hole. And I’m wishing for every one of us, for every man and girl, to get off again into the deeper water and find our feet again.
Posted on: Sun, 18 Aug 2013 07:36:56 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015