Dare I

The high tide caught him off guard. The fishing rod slipped from his wrinkled fingers, being swallowed at once by the depths of the sea, just like his jeep. At a distance, the canvas hood disappeared among a swirl of bubbles.

A string of curses followed the realisation that he was stuck on the proverbial island of the castaways, whose radius barely held the straightened legs of a man sitting against its only coconut tree, situated in the very centre of that white hill. The man stood up, pressing the palms of his hands against the sand as if he searched in it the strength old age had stolen from him. Then, he took off the sandals, drenched as they were in the cold water that had woken him up.

Squinting his eyes against the red band of the horizon, he realised that his island was the last of a rosary of other similar chunks of sand which sprinkled the sea every few kilometres. At the end of this discontinuous line, stretched out, inaccessible, the long beach of the great island which was the continent. The man’s lips tightened like his eyes, crossing his face in two hard lines, the only visible sign of his regret.

It was a last minute decision, an impulse so uncommon at his age. Instead of taking that U-turn on the right and going to the customary bay, he drove on until that one unexplored corner. On one half, the beach elongated in an endless white mat, embroidered by clear waters in which fish roamed. On the other half, it turned into a lengthy and slender cape speckled with coconut trees reaching towards the open sea, promising plenty of fish and a magnificent view. The old man took the jeep until the far end of that cape, marvelling at the scenery. But his eyes weren’t set on the beach, but upon the sea. The ocean stretched across his sight, infinite. His eyes burned with a fire he thought long smothered, and the old man quickly averted them to his fishing bag.

Since he had retired, fishing was his only entertainment. He had sworn never to board a ship again, at risk of being swept by that strange fire and never putting his feet back on earth. Fire was not the proper word for it. His soul was full of water, the salty water of that blue maelstrom which took over the hearts of every one who ever tasted it. While he was fishing, he closed his eyes and dreamt of the mermaid’s song, and then he would open them and his family would materialise before him. Therefore, he resigned himself to take home the nimble beings that inhabited that which had once been his home too, sacrificing them at his dinner table.

This time, he closed his eyes for too long. Sitting at the coconut tree, the former sailor evaluated his situation. He had to go back. Soon, the tide would be out and he would be able to cross the cape to the beach and, from there, hit the road in a few minutes.

The solution was simpler in theory than it was in fact. The sea stepped back little by little, first uncovering the bridge that chained together the islands close to the continent. In less than a quarter of an hour after retreating until the place where he was, the sea level would raise and cover everything again. The period of time was insignificant to a car, but dreadfully short to an old man’s strength. When he arrived to the island next to his, the water already kissed his feet. He saw, heartbroken, the sea lacerate his path, surrounding the coconut trees, sparing them only a lump of sand. At every coconut tree, an unreachable sky. At least, until the next low tide.

Of food, he had but a little: a packet of crackers and some sardines which he had brought with him to use as bait. But the drinking was becoming a problem. Literally. His only way to placate the thirst consisted of a bottle of rye, which left him a bit drunk. Yet, the thirst wouldn’t go away. The salt of the sea and of the food burned in his throat, and the drinking only seemed to worsen his condition. The more he drank, the more thirst he felt. Surrounded by water, he couldn’t drink it. The coconuts spoke of potable water and sweet food, but he couldn’t reach them. Tortured like Tantalus, his health weakened.

Also his crossings became more and more lengthy and fantastic. The privation and the heat populated his path with rivers of honey and delicious food which melted in sand and salt in his mouth. The blue of the sky melted with the blue of the sea, and the old man imagined himself lost between Earth and the Universe, stuck in an asteroid where his only companion was a coconut tree that wouldn’t let him lie down. The imaginary line of the horizon raised until the zenith. The old man asked himself if he really walked from island to island or if he sailed across the void from asteroid to asteroid, on the tail of a comet.

All the while, the sea called to him with its thunderous voice, promising his redemption by means of his surrender, as do all gods who battle against each other for the souls of men. However, the old man kept his eyes set on the white beach of the continent, his back to the sea. A modern Ulysses, he braced himself against the temptations of the depths by tying his will to his family on earth. He needed to wait. Soon, the bridge made of sand would rise from the sea and would take him closer to his aim. And the old man progressed from island to island, panting and staggering as a whaler struck by disgrace.

The fifth dawn announced the last crossing. The continent stretched before him, apart only by a few hundred metres. He stood up with difficulty. His legs trembled from emotion, arthritis and thirst. No sooner had the sea retreated than the ex-sailor began to cover the distance, tottering with uncertain steps. His efforts were soon overthrown by a trip, making him fall on his face. Too weak to rise again, he began to crawl with tenacity towards the place beckoned by his intuition, since his vision had long been blurred by mirages. The distance, however, hardly shortened. The old man dug his bloodstained nails in the sand, pushing his body forward with difficulty. It was with horror that he felt the cold tongue of the sea lick his ankles. The rejected ocean avenged itself on its former follower, claiming his life. The sun set on the horizon, tainting the waters in hellish colours which set fire to his throat. When the evening star returned to its bed, the old man couldn’t be found anywhere.



A few hundred metres from the beach, a jeep waited for his owner on the roadside. Footsteps could be seen coming out of it in a tortuous line that began to be washed away by the flux and reflux of the waters of that small bay. A bottle drifted on the sea.