150-YEAR-OLD TECHNOLOGY SAVE STRANDED FISHERMEN
Dashiell woke up to an absolutely new reality. He did it every day for the past
forty years – no more hostilities, dead relatives, deafening explosions, living on the
run. This is the world he had been fighting for, where mortgage was the biggest of
human problems. The world with peaceful leisure weekends, endless strolls and
smiles on the faces of every other passer-by. Today was his turn to savour the post-
war pleasures. A shabby-looking lanky elderly man took the bus and was riding along
the quay to meet his two staunchest pals in the harbour. His clothes were neatly
shipshape, as was his mind. It was another John’s idea of how to ruefully spend their
retirement repose. Dahiell thought his friend grew old too soon to opt for such dull
pastime as fishing. However, he was too well-bred a man to reject somebody. From a
distance he could see Charles’s fisher with two worn-out ripped nets and a threadbare
Carolina-flag on the lower mast.
‘Lo, Dash’’, said one of the men. ‘Long time no see’.
‘Good morning, Johnny. It’s been a while’. They all exchanged friendly
pleasantries, customary in the eighties and Dashiell allowed himself to notice how
both of his friends hadn’t changed a tad. John’s disheveled dark brown hair and
crazy, ever lost gaze and Charles’s stooping back and smoke-ridden teeth were still
there, past the time and distance.
As the bait and rods were transferred to the boat, the three of them set out to
relish the notorious multitude and variety of fish in this haven on an overcast, though
otherwise undisturbed Saturday morning. Charles stuck to his usual itinerary and
soon they came into an open sea, cast their lines and started merry talks about
memories, people, life and whatnot.
‘And you Dash, have you married after the war? Got any children?’ Johnny
asked.
‘Yes, I have been married to Dakota Fleming. She passed away three years
ago. We have a daughter, Ann, and two grandchildren, they’re twins’, - he replied
and the added somewhat wistfully: ‘Their smiles were worth it all’. Charles, the
proficient fisherman, caught almost half of his bucket in an hour, even five salmons,
to his own surprise. The grey clouds thickened over them, John was drinking some
cheap spirits and now and then threw nasty wisecracks about how they don’t make it
nowadays the way they used to. Charles got even more engrossed in the process of
fishing, which most women would find a rather tedious activity. Dashiell plunged
into a total calm, his china-blue eyes contemplating the horizon over the tiny waves.
Everything was so unbelievably senile and tiresome, yet soothing at the same time.
But then came the tempest.
The thunder rumbled gruesomely and at first sight the calm waters were
incongruous with the raging clouds. It was not until the gales started to wrap the
fisher boat into their macabre embrace, that Charles turned the rudder and headed
toward the quay. But John seemed to grasp it was late and knelt down to pray, he
looked contritely at the skies and couldn’t keep his eyes from getting moist, his face
from getting florid, an emotional wreck that he was. Charles was trying to direct the
boat with gritty determination, but it suddenly gave way and broke down. Dashiell,
with an unabashed countenance started to bucket the water out of the boat. The
friends followed his lead and went on to do the same thing. The gaunt waves
reminded Dahiell of the enemy during the war and, just for an instant, he felt himself
in a natural element again, after all these years. Either the storm answered John’s
prayers or it didn’t spot any diffidence in Dashiell’s eyes, but in a tepid response it
retreated. The men fought it for so long, it was only then that they figured out how far
at sea they happened to be. Half of the equipment was out of order after being doused
in water. Charles’s mind went blank as he looked around the boat – the machinery
was utterly deranged, as were his thoughts. The SOS guns were wet and therefore of
no use. How on earth were they supposed to be rescued now? Dashiell, ever placidly,
continued to comb the boat for a chance to escape. It was with dexterity, that he
eventually found about the only undamaged device in the upper cabinet above the
captain’s booth. The morse radio, seemingly useless technology now in 1986, stared
at colonel Dashiell from under a thick film of dust. Because it seemed to be grinning,
he smiled at the machine in return. What with all that the war had deprived him of, he
could never have imagined that the military skills will once safe his life. He sent a
message in an imperious manner, and with an air of confidence sat cross-legged at the
wet chair, thinking he had almost believed that he would kiss his granddaughter Sue
goodnight again.