Written by Gene Cashman III
Photography by Graham Bullock
n these parts generation upon generation of people have passed along the notion that life flows with the certainty of the tides, each breath cutting a path through the lungs like ocean water returning to the creeks and canals of the Coastal Empire. Life and its contrast – death, are both very certain and ultimately predictable; yet every path back home, a return to dust, is different. I thought about such things as the sun sliced a crease in the pre-dawn sky. The tide was presently slack and the boat in which I sat hung motionless, cradled in a liquescent glow, none but the sound of my own breath breaking the silence. It was New Year’s Eve morn.
The next sound I heard was unexpected and totally broke my thought. Oddly, coming from the thicket and mist up on the bluff, someone whistled the tune “I Saw Three Ships.” Three ships, indeed. Moored to the Oyster Factory dock were three shrimp boats of varying size; no doubt the inspiration for the early riser. A hollow thud followed and rang out across the water. Two large, snowy egrets took flight, their white bodies crisp against the dark colors of the bluff’s shadows. Soon thereafter the familiar “whoosh-whoosh” of oar in water was heard. An outline pushed from the darkness into the now shimmering water. A lone man in a rowboat. I watched until my thoughts drifted once again to the back pages of my mind.
It had been a strange year and it had nothing to do with a new president. It was a year full of change; a year when one realizes they are not in control of anything, but how they react to changing situations. There was the joyous birth of a nephew, a disappointing false start to a law career, the fruitful beginning of a healthcare career, a wonderful proposal and acceptance, a national tragedy, a jarring and unexpected diagnosis, and a 60th birthday that suddenly made me, at 24, feel old. A lot of personal idealism was lost, regained, only to be lost and regained once more by late December 2001. Again the oars of the rowboat clanging together re-focused my attention. The man had returned to shore. The full tide had now turned and a billion gallons of water now carried both the waste and the new life of the river to sea; a fitting tribute to the dawn of a new year.
The path back up the dock was damp and rough. I had risen before dawn and unable to sleep had sought refuge from idle thought at water’s edge. I had come unprepared. My feet felt the seasonal chill as did the back of my throat. It was perhaps foolish to have spent several hours exposed in only a t-shirt and pajama pants. I felt impish and awkward as I tip toed back up the rocky path to the house, even more so when I noticed a familiar silhouette on the porch.
“What are you doing?” a sleepy voice whispered. A girl -- no, a woman, stood hunched over and obviously chilled, both hands fi rmly planted in each armpit, eyes barely open, her beautiful curly hair wildly framing her striking features. It took my breath away and made me pray the next seven months would fl y by. My fi ancée, Betsy, was for some reason, awake. “I got up to get some water and saw that your bedroom door was open,” she said “I got worried when I couldn’t fi nd you anywhere; are you okay?” I gave her tiny frame a bear hug. “Yeah, I am fi ne,” I whispered, “go back to sleep.” Sleepy and content that I was safe, she shuffl ed back to her warm bed. I smiled deeply at the lasting vision of her curly mop and hazel eyes. The corners of my cheeks pinched my ears and seared my brain at the thought of her pink pajamas. When you love someone, their image lingers long after they’ve gone, at any age. I skipped forward, literally, now fully awake.
The smell of coffee, eggs, toast and bacon is as iconic as anything in Americana. At least that is what I thought at 7:15 AM that particular morning. Realistically, I wanted Betsy to come back out. Instead, everyone except her emerged and I was the short order cook for the next two hours. Then, fi nally, she reemerged. She wiped her eyes and sat down on my lap. “Can I fi x you something to eat?” She put her head on my shoulder. She smelled like toothpaste, Herbal Essence shampoo and Ivory soap. I was intoxicated. I have three sisters, and squarely understood all the concoctions girls apply, but never imagined a dop-kit’s worth of sundry aroma could make me so crazy. I hugged her tight. “You want some breakfast?” She nuzzled her nose into my neck, “Pancakes?” She slyly whispered, cutting her eyes up at me. I surveyed my inventory and put my paper hat back on, “sure babe.”
After breakfast everyone, including Betsy, went their separate way. Again, I was alone. Only this time it was against my will. I held a steel wool pad and looked out over the kitchen’s mess. The joyous chaos now gone, all that was left was what needed to be done. Truly, I selfi shly thought, that’s what always remains from anything in this condemned world --- the reality of what needs to be done to move one moment into the next, however sweet it shines. I thought back to the tides and how they move a life’s cycle worth of matter from one moment to the next. Out of context, life can seem so callous. I, sometimes see a lot of things out of context. I began to grouse. Under my breath and out of self-centeredness I wished everyone well in whatever wonderful thing they were now engaged, full and happy at my expense. I, again selfi shly, wanted to be praised for a kind deed and was put out that no one was slapping me on the back for waking them up and feeding them a great breakfast. My own preconceived perceptions of sainthood were fueling my discontent.
Apparently, no one can non-verbally sing the blues like I can. I had noticed Betsy breezing in and out of the kitchen area several times, but then noticed her staring a hole through me. “What’s your problem?” She lamented. This was not the fi rst discussion of my moody discontent. I had been complaining, unsuccessfully, about “my tough year” for weeks. “Nothing,” I lied, unable to verbalize my mythic frustration. An undertaker’s bell tolled between my ears. She cocked her head and studied my face. “Liar. I don’t believe you.” The words were playful and coy, but my defenses were up. “Well,” I began, trying to evoke pity. “Uh-uh no way,” she snapped back “no one asked you to cook, but everyone was so grateful you did.” I held my words. “If you need help,” she added “just ask.” I was fi rmly back in my place. “Nah,” I said “I can handle it.” She smiled and made her confi dent exit.
I looked out the window and surveyed the river. The tide was low. The bones of the river were now more than partially exposed: the shells, the barnacles, the rusting crab pots, the stinky pluff mud. It was all there for everyone to see, the powerful cloak of river water stripped away. Even so, people say that the low tide is the most precious of the two, because you can see the river for what it really is; there is nothing hidden. I laughed to myself. I thought back over what I thought to be a long year and realized my desire for self-pity was foolish. I remembered all the blessings and felt ashamed of my jaded heart. The transparency of the moment was self-evident. Betsy had just experienced a low tide moment, brilliantly called me out on it and moved along. It then occurred to me that I might be getting in over my head! “Betsy!” I called out. She emerged in short order from a hallway bedroom, “Bets, why do you love me?” She looked perturbed. “I mean really, you know I am such a selfi sh person, why did you say yes?” She smiled. Do you really want me to shout that across the room or do you want to come over here and receive it.” My eyes shined as I walked into her open arms and I felt a release of angst in her embrace. I was as at home as I could ever hope to be in this condemned world and excited about all the unexpected changes the New Year would bring.
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