My feet pounded against the beach, my shoes kicking up sand behind me. I couldn’t spend another minute in that house with my father. Not with him trying to tell me how to live my life when he barely knew how to live his own. I had run upstairs, slammed my bedroom door shut, and climbed out the window. I looked through one of the downstairs windows as I passed, and saw him already sat down in his armchair with a glass of whisky in his hand.
The summer sun was starting to lower in the sky, but it would be light for a while yet. That was what I loved about summer, the long evenings. The air was warm, but a slight breeze had begun, and it cooled the sweat on my face as I ran.
I crossed the beach and slowed, stumbling into my family’s boathouse. It was run down, a partition wall collapsed, and holes in the roof that let rain in.
I pulled the doors open and climbed into my little boat. The engine started with a splutter, and I sailed it through the doors, out onto the open water. The sound of the engine rumbling, and the waves lapping at the paintwork, seagulls calling out above me – this was my happy place. The place where nothing could get to me, where I felt the safest, alone on the water.
I took the boat around the coast, watching my house come into view, half hoping my father would be outside, looking for me, making sure I was alright. The house stood solitary, and the only people I could see were the elderly couple who lived down the road from us, walking slowly along the beach. Who was I kidding, my father probably hadn’t even gone upstairs to realise I wasn’t there. Why would he come to apologise, or talk to me? There was no point in talking if I was going to be the only one listening.
I turned the engine off, letting the boat drift. The waves were calm, and I walked across the deck as it rocked, a practiced motion of staying upright. The shore was small in the distance, and I sat, staring at it. I couldn’t see my house anymore, or the couple on the beach. I couldn’t see the individual trees that I knew from climbing them in my childhood. What I could see, though, was the colours of the land. I could see the pale sand, the darkness of trees and the lighter patches of grass. I could just about make out the town.
The air lost its warmth as the sun continued its descent. I could see the moon, pale against the still blue sky, and the white trail left behind from an airplane. My attention drifted as I watched the water, sat crosslegged on the deck, the gentle rocking calming me. I breathed in the salty air, the hair on my arms raising with goosebumps from the new chill in the air. I reluctantly pushed myself to my feet and went in search of the blanket I kept on the boat, finding it tucked away and wrapping it around my shoulders.
The engine reluctantly came back to life, and I directed the boat back towards the shore, to its captivity in the boathouse. A broken down home, where it had no choice but to stay. Somehow, I would rather stay in the boathouse. That, or take my boat and sail somewhere, anywhere. I could travel along the coast, follow it to another beach town and find my place there, or just keep going, live on the boat as I travelled.
The walls of the boathouse enclosed me in, and I cut the engine, jumping out the boat to close the doors. I would stay here tonight. I couldn’t face climbing back into my room, or going through the front door and explaining where I had been. I didn’t want to face my home tonight.
My boat had a little cabin, with a small kitchen and a place to sleep. I kept things here, things I would take if I ever were to just up and leave. I pulled open one of the drawers, and took out a framed photo of my mother. This had been her boat, left to me when she passed away a few years ago. That was when my father had changed as well. Now, he would rather spend money on a bottle of alcohol than pick flowers for her grave.
I settled into bed, laying the blanket over the duvet, and tucking both around me. My father didn’t understand why my mother and I loved this boat so much. He didn’t get why we would rather be out sailing than on land. But there was something about being on the water, the rocking of the boat, the sound of the water – I even slept better in on the boat than in my room at home. Being on the water was home for me, and it gave me a way to keep my mother’s memory alive. Every time I took the boat out, I could almost hear her voice in the sigh of the wind, and could almost feel her hands over mine on the wheel, like how she used to help me steer when I was little.
I rolled over, and yawned. I would go back tomorrow, talk to my father. I suppose I had to. For now, though, I would sleep. One day, I was going to take the boat and go. I could feel it. I was just waiting for the day to come, and in the meantime, I dreamt of the open water, the wind in my hair, and no one around to stop me.
And done!
I wasn't sure what to call this story, 'The Call of the Sea' was the first thing that came to mind.
Well, actually, the first thing that came to mind was 'Boat Story', and it was sat on my desktop with that title for a few days before I actually made this post. I think 'Boat Story' would've sufficed. Anyway.
That's all for now...
Bye!
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