Chelonia
The dawn wasn’t fierce on the shore, and in fact it was almost too nice and too pleasant to follow the rosy wisps of clouds which crossed the sky today the way crab legs cross along the damp sand as it comes and goes by the edge of the tide. He had seen many dawns like these before, and he had seen just as many sunsets, of the mosaic quality that memory tends to stir inside a fisherman. His feet and ankles were bare, as usual, and trouser legs were neatly rolled up to the shin. The sand was still cool under the balls of his feet and he appreciated this because it meant that the whole day was still ahead of him. He walked and hummed and over his shoulder, he carried a durable landing net while the wicker basket his wife made with her small hands many years ago was suspended at his hip.
By noon he was sweating and the back of his neck was red and his ears were red too, but that was when she walked to the other side of the shoreline and threw off her torn sandals and sat down in the little ditch. The girl watched the sheets of gray and teal come in to greet her, then retreat when the time was right. The old man still had good sight, so he pulled the net up out of the water, but he couldn’t help watching her smile in the face of the cloudless sun.
“Look at that! She’s back again.” A tall guddler yelled over.
“I can see.”
“It’s a shame that her mother doesn’t watch with a closer eye.”
“You mean with a closer eye like yours.”
“She’s not so young.”
“Neither are you.”
“What’s that for? You know I wouldn’t put a hand on her.”
“I hope not, yours ought to be around the neck of a live one.”
“Not today Sir, can’t catch a damnsworth of anything.”
“Be more patient. Be more like a fisherman.” said the old man, as he pulled in his net and surfaced a decent looking silver. He looked the fish over, and after he was satisfied, the old man walked back onto the shore and threw it inside the wide bucket where he kept all the rest and then he rubbed his hands together and squeezed his raw palms.
The Spenser girl came down to the water every day. She would sit around for a bit and soon after she would walk along the shore and pick up seashells, but only big seashells. She used the front of her dress as a kind of bindle and once there were enough shells of the right size that fit her liking she returned to her sandals, kneeled down and began to build a turtle out of the sand. It was never a large turtle, maybe the size of watermelon, but it was always the same kind of turtle with the same look and its head always faced the sea. Usually the girl went home just before dusk, but at night her turtle was washed away by high tide. The next day she’d come back and start all over and some time passed before she began to notice where the seashells would collect after being moved. She was getting better.
“What’s this you’re making?” The old fisherman asked.
“It’s a turtle, silly, open your eyes.”
“Do you like turtles very much?”
“Sure.”
“Enough to come down here and build them everyday?”
“No.”
“You’re Mrs. Spenser’s daughter aren’t you?”
She looked up and scrunched her face.
“You know, you ask more questions than I do.”
“Forgive me.”
“And you’re a serious man. I don’t like that. Maybe if you help me find more seashells I’ll change my mind.”
The girl stood up and ran over to her pile of shells and picked up the squarest one, she came back and settled on her knees again and wedged it into the smooth sand that she had been packing.
“This fisherman is far too old to look for shells with you.”
“That’s too bad. But don’t be upset about what I said before. I was kidding”
Mrs. Spenser’s daughter was wearing a blue sun dress, Napoleon blue, reminiscent of the coats of the Grande Armee, but that’s not something he expected her to know and she was tall for her age with long thin legs that looked like they belonged to a young ballerina, but maybe she was older than he had originally thought.
She looked up and asked, “Did you know Daddy?”
“Pardon?”
“My Father. Did you ever meet him? He’s a sailor, I thought maybe you would know each other.”
“We did.”
“You mean you do.”
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
The girl turned her soft cheeks to the ocean.
“Turtles are good luck, you know.” She said to no one.
“I wasn’t aware.”
“Oh yea, it’s pretty much a proven fact. My mother told me a little while ago, that turtles are good luck for sailors. That turtles get together and keep the ship afloat from beneath the waves, and in storms the keep the ships from turning over. I know she was just saying that. But then I heard elsewhere that there are stories of sailors, who get lost out at sea, and these large, big-shelled turtles will rescue them, and carry them off to safety. Do you think it’s a good turtle so far?”
“It looks like a good turtle would.”
“Yea. I knew that. I just wanted to hear you say it.”
She smiled and the waves whispered something pretty.
“I’m sure the fleet is fine. I’m sure your father is fine, too.”
“I know. But, you can never have too much good luck.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He said and looked down at his legs, which appeared dark and for the first time in his life they were legs that belonged to an old man and not a fisherman.
“Will I see you tomorrow, young lady?”
A gray shell fell out of her hand and she looked at the shoreline.
“Probably not. But who knows. It’s up to Daddy whenever he decides to return.”
The old piscator didn’t know what to say so he remained quiet, turned on his way and passed over the warm sand. He submerged his toes in the water and waited for the grains that clung at his ankles to freefall into the quiet of the sea. For a moment, he thought about where her father could be.
“What’s wrong with that girl?” asked the guddler as he bobbled for a catch.
“Nothing. She has the world figured out, that’s all.”
