Casting Off

by Nicole R Dickson

  “I’m pulling with my stomach,” Rebecca said, clenching her teeth as she pulled the oars.

  “Pull with your arms; push with your legs.”

  “I’m doing that,” she growled.

  “Breathe here,” Fionn Sr. said, poking her diaphragm with his right index finger. “Breathe out as you pull the oars—breathe in as you raise them.”

  Rebecca tried it, unsuccessfully. She had to keep taking an extra breath. “I need more air,” she said.

  “Then breathe out all your air as you pull the oars from the water, breathe in and out fast as the oars come around, and take a deep breath as they hit the ocean again. Breathe that all out and start again.”

  Concentrating, Rebecca did as instructed, pushing her stomach out as she inhaled. It did help the pain in her ribs, but her arms and legs burned.

  “We’re coming onto the island now. You’re gonna let Fionn find the wave and then do what he does. When you can hear the surf about you, pull the oars in, slip out, and grab the sides of the curragh,” Fionn Sr. said. “And watch out for my ears.”

  Rebecca heard Ina chuckle.

  In front of her, Rebecca watched Fionn turn around. He offered her a half smile, then looked past her. He lifted his left oar out of the water, pulling shallowly and fast on his right. Rebecca did the same. The curragh turned and now they were heading east. Rebecca looked to the north. The beach where Ina’s house was stood waiting, holding out its arms to grab the curragh.

  “Why don’t we just go in?” Rebecca asked. “The shore’s right there.”

  “Have to find a wave,” Fionn Sr. said. “The wrong wave can take you too far to one side or the other. There’s rocks below. Tear the curragh up like it was a piece of paper.”

  “Here we go,” Fionn called, lifting his right oar out of the sea and rowing quickly with his left. “Everybody say your prayers.”

  They all laughed as Rebecca followed Fionn’s lead. The curragh turned again, and when it was pointed directly at the shore Fionn pulled on his oars. Rebecca did the same. The boat was picked up on a wave and nearly flew to the shore. Rebecca could see the white cresting of waves about her. Her heart sped up.

  “Pull in the oars,” Fionn Sr. commanded.

  Rebecca lifted them with a grunt and laid them upon the hull. Ina helped set them into place as Fionn Sr. stood.

  “Jump out!” he said as he did so. Rebecca rose from her seat and jumped. Her left foot caught the curragh’s wooden frame and she hit the surf backward. The boat listed in her direction. Ina screamed.

  “Get your foot out of the curragh!” Fionn Sr. yelled.

  It was too late. The boat, in full forward motion, turned over and as Rebecca saw its dark shape falling down upon her, she could see Fionn grab Ina. Rebecca was under the water, her body still moving ashore with the curragh. In the confusion of bubbles and sound, she saw the bench she had been sitting on moments before above her head. She grabbed it and pulled her head up into the air pocket underneath the boat.

  Her name was called out by alarmed and frightened voices from beyond the darkness of the curragh. She felt the sand beneath her bottom, and the water receded. Letting go of the bench, she lay there, breathing in the tar scent of the boat above her.

  “Becky!” Fionn yelled.

  The curragh was rolled off of her and she blinked in the bright Irish sun.

  “Sweet Jesus, Becky, you all right?” He touched her arms and legs, feeling around her head. Ina and Fionn Sr. appeared in the sky above. Their eyes were wide and worried.

  “You guys didn’t pray hard enough, I reckon,” she sputtered.

  Fionn fell back on his bottom, pushing his wet hair out of his face.

  “Guess not,” Fionn Sr. said.

  “I need a beer. A large, black, bitter, nasty pint. Maybe two.” She smiled over at Fionn. Pulling herself up to sit, she gazed at the curragh.

  “Michael row your boat ashore,” she said.

  “Alleluia,” Fionn finished and they all laughed.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up,” Ina said, helping Rebecca to her feet. “Then you can go to the pub. You’ll need to take both Fionns with you. They need a beer, too.”

  Ina found an old pair of Mairead’s jeans and a T-shirt for Rebecca to put on. They put her clothes in the dryer and hung the gansey by the fire. They sipped tea, laughing often as they re-ran the trip over to the island. When her clothes had dried, Rebecca slipped back into her pants, shirt, and Fionn’s gansey, then followed Fionn Sr., Fionn, and Ina out the door. Ina shut it behind her as the sun sank in the west. They would have a quick supper and a pint before returning to Sharon’s island. With very little discussion, Fionn Sr. and his son decided they would row back.

  As she walked to town, Rebecca could feel nearly every muscle in her body hurting. What was a dull ache today would be throbbing pain tomorrow, for sure. Places hurt deep inside her where she hadn’t known there were muscles. She concentrated on those places, wondering if it was truly her muscles or if it was the thought of leaving the island—and Fionn.

  Five birds flew east overhead. Fionn Sr. stopped to watch them. Ina, Fionn, and Rebecca halted as well just outside of the small town that sat on the southeast corner of Ina’s island.

  “Now where are they goin’?” Fionn Sr. asked.

  “Who?” Rebecca inquired, following his gaze.

  “Ah, those birds have a little rock out there,” Fionn Sr. said, pointing to the northwest. “They should be headin’ the other way this time of day.”

  At that moment the wind picked up and turned itself around with a sudden gust, coming in from the south. It clapped as it did so, like a master calling a servant. At the same moment the horizon turned orange.

  “Queersome,” Ina breathed.

  “You smell anything, Dad?” Fionn asked, taking Rebecca’s hand.

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  “Huh,” Fionn Sr. said. “Come on. Let’s eat.”

  They headed into town. Rebecca held on to Fionn’s hand and when she looked over her shoulder to the west, the orange grew deeper, as if a fire burned over the horizon.

  “Rowan?” Rebecca whispered, squeezing Fionn’s hand.

  CHAPTER 35

  Zigzag Furrows

  Zigzag Furrows. 1. A pattern created by twisting stitches. The deep furrows appear similar to diagonal ribbing, but are formed as multiple zigzags, looking like waves upon the sea. 2. A realization.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  Sean had received an invitation on Wednesday to a certain Fourth of July party at the old O’Flaherty place on Thursday. Though he thought it would be a very good thing to see Rowan again, he decided not to attend. Rowan’s mother was the hostess, and if there was one person Sean did not wish to see, it was Rowan’s mother. Ever since she had stood at his door like the cold, dead bottom of the ocean, something very deep had been wrong. To punctuate just how wrong something was, that little mistle thrush had been singing for seven days and Joe was hovering even now in the doorway. Sean hadn’t crawled out of bed all day because of Joe. Rolling over in his covers, Sean peered up as the westward sun of Friday afternoon poured through the small window above his bed.

  Eight days the mistle thrush has sung, Da.

  “It’s only been seven, boy.”

  Eight days and gannets are upon the waves.

  “There’s no gannets, I tell you.”

  There had been no gannets, though Sean had rowed for seven days, encompassing the island with each outing. No gannets did he find, and the mistle thrush had been singing for only seven days. Sean looked up at his window. On the glass the sun reflected like a golden halo. Sean wondered at the color, smiling as he remembered Brendan’s first step.

  Suddenly, he bolted up in his bed. He looked to the door. Joe was gone. The bird had sung on the fence as Sean headed down from the cemetery last week Friday. On Saturday it sang in his blackberry bush, and he had heard it every day since. It had not been seven days the mistle
thrush had sung. It was eight—eight days of the mistle thrush. Sean heard a whistle blowing in from the ocean.

  Flying from his covers, Sean raced through his house and out the door in his boxers. As he rounded the corner of his cottage, he stopped short. A cloud of birds gathered close in, dipping and diving, this way and that. He could not see them clearly. His heart beat faster as he tumbled down the sandy hill and onto the beach. Not more than two hundred meters offshore, gannets gathered like a swarm of gnats, thickly flowing en masse.

  “Paddy!” Sean yelled and without a backward glance, he sped back to his house. He jumped into his clothes, tripping into his shoes as he barreled out the door again, leaving his house wide-open to the wind.

  The sky was as clear as any summer’s late afternoon and the gentle breeze at his back smelled of nothing but seaweed and salt. But Sean knew. He remembered, and didn’t Paddy tell him on Wednesday that he’d be taking an engine part to Iollan today after market in Galway? If Sean measured the time correctly, Paddy would be heading out to the little island north at this moment. The young man’s boat was always having trouble.

  “Bloody Iollan!” Sean screamed, but all that came out was a cough, winded as he was from running. His spine crackled in the effort and his knees burned, but he could see the sun lowering to the horizon. He had to get to Paddy.

  From behind, Sean heard the distinct whizzing of bicycles speeding toward him. He jumped off the road, stumbling into the ditch as a group of cyclists flew past. They were late. The last ferry off the island would leave in—

  “Oh God!” Sean called, his old body wanting desperately to stop, to breathe, to walk.

  “No!” he yelled and pushed himself harder. If he were one to weep, he would be doing so now, but the sheer terror of a gnawing guilt drove him on. Grabbing his chest, he tripped into town and hobbled as fast as he could to the piers. Rounding the corner, he could see Paddy and Eoman just pulling out of their slip.

  “Stop!” Sean shouted. “Paddy!”

  Dodging a woman pushing her child in a stroller toward the ferry, he raced down the wooden pier, the waves gentle but already high on the pylons. He flung his arms about wildly. He couldn’t breathe. “Paddy!” he choked.

  Eoman called to Paddy.

  “Stop!” the old man cried.

  Paddy turned the engine off. “Morahan?” he called from his deck as Eoman slid past his partner to take the wheel.

  “Don’t go!” Sean yelled.

  Paddy scratched his head, glancing up into the clear sky.

  “Stay out of the water!” Sean called through his cupped hands. “She’ll turn on you!” Sean stared into Paddy’s eyes. His old body began to shiver it winter and all he had on was his little woolen coat. “Please, Paddy,” Sean mouthed, shaking his head. “Please, get off the water.”

  “Eoman! Back up!” Paddy hollered over his shoulder. “We’ll not be goin’ out.”

  Sean covered his face in his hands. He stood still, waiting. The sputtering of Paddy’s boat grew louder.

  “Need a pint there, Morahan?” Paddy asked warmly once he was back on the dock.

  Sean looked at the sky. “Aye. That I do.”

  “Why don’t you head over to O’Flaherty’s while Eoman and I settle the boat. We’ll buy you one.”

  “You’ll need to tell that captain not to take the ferry out,” Sean said, pointing his shaking finger at the line of tourists waiting to climb aboard.

  “You think he’ll not make it to the mainland?”

  “There’s time yet, but not that much time.”

  “All right, then. I’ll tell him.”

  Sean nodded and shuffled down the pier, his legs as heavy as if he’d just pulled himself from a winter’s sea. He needed a drink to dull the searing pain in his back. His spine usually hurt, but the great race to the docks must have shaken the shrapnel near his spine, causing a burning sensation to slide from the center of his back up to his neck. Such pain didn’t happen to him often, but when it did he couldn’t ignore it. Holding his side with his left hand, Sean opened the door to O’Flaherty’s. He looked about, startled to find his past staring back at him.

  Dirane and Dooley and three of their boys sat at tables, drinking. Young Fionn stood at the bar, pouring a pint. Sean glanced around, looking for his sons.

  “Evenin’, Morahan,” Fionn greeted him. “Comin’ in for a pint?”

  “Have ya seen my boys?” he asked, his back burning from bending over the engine the last hour.

  “They don’t come in here often, Sean,” Dirane replied. “You don’t let them.”

  Dooley and his boys snickered.

  “True enough,” Sean said, shaking his head. “But I sent them here for supper.”

  “Ah. They’ll be headin’ out, then? Got the engine fixed?” Dooley inquired.

  “Aye.” Sean nodded.

  “Is it true what Joe says?” the older Dirane boy asked.

  “What’s that?”

  “A storm is comin’.”

  “I don’t feel a storm,” Dooley remarked.

  “Neither do I,” Sean replied. “Maybe he just doesn’t want to go out tonight.”

  Dirane laughed. His oldest did not. Instead he said, “Joe says gannets is on the waves where there’s no boat and the mistle thrush’s been singing for eight days.”

  “Aye, so he’s told me, too. But I haven’t seen or heard.”

  “Neither have I,” Dooley agreed.

  “Mackerel to the north, Morahan,” Dirane said. “That’d be a good direction to head out.”

  “I’ll tell ’em,” Sean replied, nodding as he turned around.

  “Will ya have a pint, Sean?”

  He turned to look at Young Fionn behind the bar.

  “Will ya have a pint, Sean?”

  The old man blinked. It wasn’t Young Fionn behind the bar. It was his son Tom, and Sean was standing in the door, blocking the entrance.

  “Oh,” he replied, stepping through the door toward the fire. “Aye, a pint.”

  “Good, good,” Tom said.

  Sean creaked slowly into the chair nearest the hearth.

  Tom set the glass of beer on the table next to the old man. “You all right there, Sean?”

  “Aye,” Sean murmured, wiping his brow with his hand.

  He sipped his beer, staring into the flames. There was a certain orange color just above the yellow. It flickered like the sun coming through the window of his house—the sunset as orange as a fire’s flame flickering through the window, casting a heated glow on Joe’s face.

  “We shouldn’t go out, Da,” Joe said. “Somethin’s very wrong.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong, boy. Not doin’ as I say!”

  “Da,” Matthew said, “Joe knows things, Da. He says not to go.”

  “Sean,” Claire pleaded.

  “Shut up, Claire.”

  “You’ve got a wife and a wee one to feed,” Sean reminded Matthew.

  “I’m all right,” Mary interrupted.

  “Shut up,” Sean replied, glaring at her. “What kind of man lets his wife who carries his child go hungry?”

  “We’ve enough, Sean,” Claire whispered.

  Sean walked over to his wife, pulling his lips tightly across his teeth.

  Liam slid between his mother and his father.

  “No, Da,” Brendan begged.

  Sean backhanded Liam, sending the young man flying into the spinning wheel. It toppled beneath him.

  “Sean!” Claire cried.

  Sean grabbed her arm tightly, pulling her to face him. “Don’t you cross me, Claire. This isn’t your decision. Now get in there and make supper.” He pushed his wife toward the kitchen.

  “You too,” he seethed at Mary, who was shaking, tears streaming from her eyes. She looked over at Matthew.

  “Go, love,” Matthew said quietly. She obeyed.

  “You think you can read a sky better than me, boy?” Sean asked, fixing Joe with burning eyes.

 
“Da, I don’t do anything better than you. I see things differently than you.”

  “Can you read a sky better than me or no?” Sean yelled.

  “Sean?”

  Glancing up from the flame, Sean found Eoman and Paddy pulling up chairs beside him.

  “You’re dry there. Eoman, go get three pints,” Paddy said.

  “Boat’s secure?” Sean asked.

  “Aye, and we called Iollan to tell his mates to stay out of the water, too.”

  “Good, good. And the ferry?”

  “Told the captain, too. He’s calling in to Doolin.”

  Sean nodded. Eoman came back with three beers. A gust of wind hit the window like it was a fast-moving bird, causing Sean to jump in his seat.

  “Maybe I should go home,” he muttered, looking out the window to a flaming orange sky.

  “Have a pint, Sean, then come home with me for some supper,” Paddy said, patting the old man on the shoulder.

  “Never seen you so upset over the weather there, Morahan,” Eoman said as he sipped his ale.

  “I remember, Eoman O’Connelly,” Sean whispered, his eyes fixed on the sky. “I remember.” He lifted his beer.

  The sky turned red.

  CHAPTER 36

  Chevron/Basket Within

  Chevron/Basket Within. 1. A chevron with the basket stitch knitted within its angle. 2. A gale.

  —R. Dirane, A Binding Love

  Thewind tossed Sean and Paddy down the street like they were nothing more than rose petals tumbling down Father Michael’s garden path. Paddy had to grab Sean by the back of the old man’s woolen coat to keep him from blowing past the house.

  “The sky’s clear!” Paddy yelled.

  “Not for long!” Sean answered in kind, wishing he had gone home earlier.

  “Come on,” Paddy grunted as he pushed the old man through the front door of his house.

  “Paddy!” Annie exclaimed, racing across the front room.

  “What is it, love?” Paddy asked, pushing the door closed by laying his full weight upon it.