THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA

by Danna Shirley

          He sat at the table, his hat atop flowing white hair and a long gray beard. His gnarled and arthritic hands grasped a mug as he stared out the window at the sea. He had a gloomy countenance and I wondered why he was sad. As an American visitor to this small hamlet, I didn’t know if I should intrude on his solitude or try to engage him in conversation.

          My gaze moved toward the window but I saw nothing that would absorb his attention. The sky was clear and faint signs of dusk painted the horizon. All was still and the sea was like golden crystal reflecting the setting sun across the window.

          I rose and moved toward his table. “Sir, do you mind if I join you?”

          He gave me a slow nod to be seated.

          “I’ve taken the Standish Cottage for the summer,” I continued. “I thought I’d come down to the pub and meet some of my neighbors.”

          He raised his mug to me and gave another nod of his head. He had still not said a word as his eyes returned to the window.

          I sat there quietly for a few moments, sipping my drink as I, too, contemplated the closing of the day. I had come to Ireland a week earlier, sent by my publisher for solitude as well, in order to finish my novel. My timetable of completion did not match theirs and so I was hustled off to seclusion away from any distractions. I had come to a standstill in my inspiration, however, and immensely needed a diversion, ergo, the trip to the pub.

          A writer always looks for something or someone to capture on paper and I was no exception. This man stirred my curiosity. “Sir,” I broke our silence, “may I ask you a few questions?”

          He turned his head toward me but his hat hid his eyes so his expression gave me no clue until he spoke. “Humph.”

          I took that as a yes. “My name is John Cooper Bristol and you fascinate me. What is your story?” Usually that one question will either open up a floodgate of information or will draw silence. Actually, though, I learn from the silence that the person has a lot to hide. My companion was silent.

          Finally he took another drink, then set his mug away and turned to me leaning forward on one elbow. He pushed his hat further back on his head and I saw his face for the first time. A face lined and weathered from the sun and the sea, but the most distinctive feature was the vacant eyes of a blind man.

          “Well, John Cooper Bristol, I’m Angus MacSweeney,” he almost smiled. “So ya want ta hear me story, do ya? Well, here ’tis. Born seventy-five years ago and raised right here. Married and raised me five sons and two daughters here. Buried me darlin’ Katie and two a me boys, Sean and Evan, to the flu epidemic. The other three; Conner, Luke, and Thomas, were lost at sea. Me Lucy married and followed her husband to America. I ain’t seen her since. Me youngest, Ellie, died in childbirth and her little girl is all I got left of me family. Abbie has stayed right with me all these years; never married. But I told her to get on with her life; I told her to find a nice young man and have lots a wee babies but she won’t leave this old, blind man, not until I’m dead, so right now I’m just waitin’ ta die.” Angus reached for his mug and banged it on the table. The bartender brought another round.

          “So John Cooper Bristol, does that answer yer question?”

          “Please call me Coop, and yes it does somewhat, but you left out one piece of information. How did you lose your sight?”

          “Oh, that. That’s just old age . . . and glaucoma.

          “Why do you stare out the window, Angus?”

          “Memories, mostly memories of me days out on the boat, fishin’, haulin’ in a catch. I still like the smell a the sea and the sound a the waves, the ships comin’ back in. Good memories and me mind still has perfect eyesight even if I don’t.”

          Angus downed his drink and slowly stood, his body stiff and unyielding from not moving most of the day. He reached for his cane in the chair beside him and then turned to me. “Coop, me boy, whatcha doin’ for dinner?”

          “Nothing, sir.”

          “Why don’t you come home with me? Abbie cooks a good meal.”

          John Cooper Bristol may have had his sight but he was blind; blind to the designs of an old man who wanted to introduce his granddaughter to her future husband.

Assignment for my Creative Writing class at Bartlett Senior Center, TN.