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Authors: Sam Carmody
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boat? Michael shrugged. I could make more money in a mine, he mused. But I would not want that. Life is too short to go digging around in some billionaire’s sandpit, you know? And what a way to die, buried in a mine. Take me to the sea bottom any day. Feed me to the fishes.
Ruth told me the season isn’t going well.
Shit this year, they say.
Why?
Michael reached for the rollie papers in the pocket of his cargo shorts. They are calling this year the windy season. Something about the wind doing strange things. Winter storms still blowing in summer. I don’t know. No fucking fish, anyway. They do not allow many pots. He took off a glove and looked at it, turned it over in his hands. Maybe that is why I enjoy this, he said. The way I see all of this, we will not be doing it forever. People, I mean. One day there will not be this. We will wake up from our dream and there will be no fishing boats in the sea.
Michael rolled a cigarette, turned towards the cabin wall, out of the wind. He lit it, then held the bag of tobacco out. Paul shook his head.
Is Jake worried? Paul asked.
The German let the smoke go from his lips and frowned at the sea, like Paul imagined an old man might frown at the sea. Maybe, he said. But, you know, every man is worried about something.
Paul looked at him, again trying to figure out if the deckhand was being serious or not.
So, Michael said, eyes widening again. You getting pussy?
Paul smiled and shook his head.
My god. The girls that come and stay in that place. I would live there myself.
Don’t you have a girlfriend?
Girlfriend? Michael replied.
Shivani? Who made you lunch?
Shivani? Michael repeated, and paused to think on it. Well, yes. I guess I do.
Paul scoffed. Michael grinned.
She is always packing me lunches, Michael said mournfully. Every day. It is hell.
Why is that hell?
Shivani is Sri Lankan, Michael said. Her parents, they run that Tamil place. You understand? He looked at Paul sternly. They run a fucking restaurant. But Shivani? When Shivani is in a kitchen she is lost. She always has a cookbook like this. Michael held a palm close in front of his eyes. It is like watching a tourist, Michael said. Her head in a map, totally lost. Like one of those tourists in a big city who gets confused and steps out in front of a bus. They do not know which way the traffic runs, which way to look, and everything goes to shit. That is what it is like. I see her in a kitchen and I just want to shout, Shivani, get the fuck out of there before you kill yourself!
Paul listened for Jake, concerned about Michael’s volume.
And she is always packing me lunches, Michael said. I mean, what are the possibilities of that? How is my luck? I find myself a Sri Lankan in this tiny place and she speaks more Aussie than the rest of you, and she cooks like an old man who has lost his mind. Fuck me.
Paul grimaced to hide his smile.
Amazing butt, though, he said, and gave Paul a serious look. My goodness.
Paul laughed at the earnestness in his eyes, couldn’t help it.
Michael smiled. No, no, he said. I love that girl. Very much. Michael stretched. I need coffee, he declared. You?
Don’t think I should risk it, Paul said. It had been almost an hour since he had last been sick.
Michael walked away up the deck, pausing to take his gloves off. You know, he said over his shoulder, we have got a spare room, me and Shivani. Piece of shit, our place, but cheaper than that backpacker joint. No good you wasting all your money there, even if it is full of girls.
Paul opened his mouth to thank him, but the deckhand had already entered the cabin.
There were long hours during which the deckhands said nothing to each other, when there wasn’t a word said anywhere on the boat. Michael smiling into the breeze; Jake lurking on the bridge, like Quasimodo in his tower, unseen. It was something like calm. You could retreat into yourself and it was acceptable. Expected. The work was good for that, Paul thought.
Ruth told me the season isn’t going well.
Shit this year, they say.
Why?
Michael reached for the rollie papers in the pocket of his cargo shorts. They are calling this year the windy season. Something about the wind doing strange things. Winter storms still blowing in summer. I don’t know. No fucking fish, anyway. They do not allow many pots. He took off a glove and looked at it, turned it over in his hands. Maybe that is why I enjoy this, he said. The way I see all of this, we will not be doing it forever. People, I mean. One day there will not be this. We will wake up from our dream and there will be no fishing boats in the sea.
Michael rolled a cigarette, turned towards the cabin wall, out of the wind. He lit it, then held the bag of tobacco out. Paul shook his head.
Is Jake worried? Paul asked.
The German let the smoke go from his lips and frowned at the sea, like Paul imagined an old man might frown at the sea. Maybe, he said. But, you know, every man is worried about something.
Paul looked at him, again trying to figure out if the deckhand was being serious or not.
So, Michael said, eyes widening again. You getting pussy?
Paul smiled and shook his head.
My god. The girls that come and stay in that place. I would live there myself.
Don’t you have a girlfriend?
Girlfriend? Michael replied.
Shivani? Who made you lunch?
Shivani? Michael repeated, and paused to think on it. Well, yes. I guess I do.
Paul scoffed. Michael grinned.
She is always packing me lunches, Michael said mournfully. Every day. It is hell.
Why is that hell?
Shivani is Sri Lankan, Michael said. Her parents, they run that Tamil place. You understand? He looked at Paul sternly. They run a fucking restaurant. But Shivani? When Shivani is in a kitchen she is lost. She always has a cookbook like this. Michael held a palm close in front of his eyes. It is like watching a tourist, Michael said. Her head in a map, totally lost. Like one of those tourists in a big city who gets confused and steps out in front of a bus. They do not know which way the traffic runs, which way to look, and everything goes to shit. That is what it is like. I see her in a kitchen and I just want to shout, Shivani, get the fuck out of there before you kill yourself!
Paul listened for Jake, concerned about Michael’s volume.
And she is always packing me lunches, Michael said. I mean, what are the possibilities of that? How is my luck? I find myself a Sri Lankan in this tiny place and she speaks more Aussie than the rest of you, and she cooks like an old man who has lost his mind. Fuck me.
Paul grimaced to hide his smile.
Amazing butt, though, he said, and gave Paul a serious look. My goodness.
Paul laughed at the earnestness in his eyes, couldn’t help it.
Michael smiled. No, no, he said. I love that girl. Very much. Michael stretched. I need coffee, he declared. You?
Don’t think I should risk it, Paul said. It had been almost an hour since he had last been sick.
Michael walked away up the deck, pausing to take his gloves off. You know, he said over his shoulder, we have got a spare room, me and Shivani. Piece of shit, our place, but cheaper than that backpacker joint. No good you wasting all your money there, even if it is full of girls.
Paul opened his mouth to thank him, but the deckhand had already entered the cabin.
There were long hours during which the deckhands said nothing to each other, when there wasn’t a word said anywhere on the boat. Michael smiling into the breeze; Jake lurking on the bridge, like Quasimodo in his tower, unseen. It was something like calm. You could retreat into yourself and it was acceptable. Expected. The work was good for that, Paul thought.
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