Left On The Dock
Writing Prompt: Express a complex emotion through fiction
I stood looking over the stern of the St. Barnabas. The sand in the hot wind scratched at my face. My longing for the sea could not be stayed by all the sweet food and women the Emir offered. I had seen a great poverty within that forsaken desert land. I had found a greater poverty in heart of the people. None greater, though, then the old man at the dock.
The old man would not give me his name, just that he was there to serve. His back was curled below the boxes. He pulled the ropes and loaded cargo. The skin on hands was thicker than ox hide. He lived a wretched life, yet he smiled. I did not believe his smile. There was lie behind his eyes that he hid by never looking directly at me.
Once St. Barnabas sat heavy in the water, I called the men back with three rings of the bell. I stood on the dock inspecting my sailors as they returned to port. The old man stood near by, shuffling his feet and picking at his finger nails. I could bare it no longer and finally asked him,
“Sir, why do work the docks? You could sail and make twice as much in half the time.”
“Oh, my ship has sailed,” he replied, glancing between me and the tattered leathers on his feet.
“Nonsense,” I told him. “There is always another ship, another port, another call. There is a ship before you right now.”
“Oh, no, no, not for me.” The old man pulled at the hem of his shirt. “I heard the call of the sea once, but I was afraid. I signed papers, but when the call came, I hid. I stood right here and watched my ship sail on without me. I am old now, and there is no call for someone like me, bent with age. Now, I help men, like you, make it to their ship. It is a terrible thing to miss the call.”
“I see…and I agree.” I knew all to well of what the man spoke of. I had also fled from the call of the sea. I had found comfort and easy living, but it was a quiet sort of hell. It took more rum than it should have, but I had finally stumbled back to the beach. Toes in the sand, I heard her voice. She called to me still. I realized then that it had never stopped calling, I had stopped listening. I turned to the old man, “will you join me on my ship? You are strong and I can use a man wise with experience.”
“You are a generous Captain, but my place is here.”
“I can see the misery behind your eyes. Why do you stay?”
“I was too afraid to answer mine, now I’m too afraid someone will miss theirs.”
I pitied the man with a gold piece. Fear had pierced his heart. No amount of money would fill that hole, but perhaps he could have a respite, a cool drink among the flames.
I cast off with the tide and watched as the old man held his gold piece to his chest with one hand and waved us farewell with the other. I turned, kicked the dust from my boots and set forth to the sea, my home.
***
I am 41 now and feel I missed my boat. I know there is always another boat and Christ never stops calling us. I still hear the constant voice telling me it’s too late. I’ve missed my chances. Just focus on your daughters and make sure they don’t miss theirs.
I do believe in the sacrifice of a father for his children, but does it have to be absolute? Was there only one boat for me? Because I missed that one, do I have to miss all the rest too? Have I conditioned my self with doubts that keep me from stepping into my calling? Has fear pierced my heart?
The Captain who finds redemption, answers his call, is the ideal I want to attain (maybe with less rum, but it takes what it takes). I want to be him, but feel I am the old man at the dock.
Feedback:
Did your opinion of the story change drastically after reading my notes at the end?
Did the interaction convey the internal struggle of fear and age and missed opportunities?