Our Town – November 18, 2021

The Soupster looks through a spyglass.

Submitted by Nan Metashvili

Three old friends stood leaning against the Mariner’s Wall, looking over the harbour and all the tied-up vessels, companionably  shooting the breeze.  They were watching the clouds, the boats at their moorings, and chuckling at the antics of the seagulls. Just passing the time.

“Whoah! Look at that aim,” exclaimed Old Johnnie, as a gull deftly aimed his poop right down on the freshly swabbed deck of a tidy little sailboat.

“Harrarr! That one splatted on the entire deck!”

The Soupster, not exactly lurking, but also not taking part, wondered if they were always this childish.

Then their conversation veered into more sombre waters.

“I could do with a tequila, or a playa right now,” remarked Bozo Slim. He was apparently still caught up in the spell of Dia de Los Muertos, just celebrated a few weeks before. His lost wife was on his mind. So, these thoughts and hangin’ out by the Mariner’s Wall, readin’ the bricks – yeah, that sometimes got a fellow to remembering.

        For fishers who never came home.

Pickled Pete would have staunchly denied there was such a thing as a tear in his eye. He was just…remembering. Those who didn’t make it, and the time he almost didn’t.

        For Our Men Lost.

And spaghetti too? Chuckled ole Bozo, “Remember that time my boat went down, no warning at all?? I was just in the wheelhouse, cookin’ up some dinner and trying to rest from a hard day’s fishing – then we caught the big wave, the rogue wave, and that was it. I made it into my survival suit, hit the epirb button and leapt for the life raft. And as my old friend disappeared under the waves, I could just spy, as she went down, my pot of spaghetti simmering on the stove, no doubt still bubbling and smelling of oregano and garlic.

“Well, we’re still here” the men sighed, but they did feel a pang of loss for some good food gone down to a cold and dreadful fate.

        Safe Home. Raven Radio.

“Yup, we’re all here safe and thankful – ooh, look at that! Pretty close and danged disrespectful, that gull has no couth at all, I tell ya. He got his ole seagull poop right on Robert W.’s brick! Bob would not appreciate that, no-siree-Bob! Chuckles, all around.

Retired, no more fishing, no more seafood processing, gutting, catching, cleaning the gear, maintaining the boat. Just hang out and remember the good old days. Ah, remember her?

          Rocked the slime line.

Good one. Then they all fell silent. Hearts were heavy. Thanksgiving was coming, and whether or not you feasted, ate sparingly of a vegan feast at your daughter-in-law’s home, or sat alone, missing the ones you missed, they all knew they were pretty lucky.

          Celia S. Sailed the seas to freedom.

And as one, the three friends raised their imaginary glasses of margaritas to all the brave souls who venture across oceans seeking freedom.