The whispy pink-golden clouds faded slowly into a heavenly sunset. The call of sea birds died slowly unto the horizon, gone with the light. All, save the sea was still.
I sat on the rear deck, strapped firmly into Uncle Francis' fishing chair, a can of light ale in one hand and a cigar in t'other.
I ran my hand lightly up and down the shaft of the king rod as it lay strapped upright to the chair, like some aquatic excalibur. I fingered it gently and let the ash from my cigar fall onto my khaki pants.
Uncle Francis appeared from below deck, the smell of salted carp attached to his weathered man beard. He tentatively approached; it's strange how one can sense uneasiness merely in the nature of a man's footsteps.
"Evening Mr Rambling" It was the first time he'd called me anything but 'cunt' or 'land lubber' or one of those numerous cliched phrases applied by men who make a career from the waves.
"Mmm." I didn't turn around, but stared hard out to sea.
"I'm sorry about last night. What I did was un-called for, and out of character for a Gooselane"
"Don't worry about it"
"But I do Mister Rambling, I do. What I did, what I did was darn right rude and nasty and all the horrors under the gilted sun"
"We all have moments do we not Gooselane?" I chanced to call him by his surname, an indication of the concise shift in power.
"Still Mister Rambling, coming to you in the night with my shotgun, waving it around and screaming threats was not decent at all"
I raised my hand.
"Forgotten Gooselane, all forgotten I assure you."
"But Sir, perhaps I could-"
"If you don't mind Gooselane, I'd like to be alone with my thoughts a little while longer"
"Of course Sir of course." He trudged across deck to the hatch. He stopped before descending.
"Goodnight Mister Rambling"
I nodded my head and looked on as the stars shone like LCD lights on a battered VHS player and the strong, mighty arms of Atlas cradled the burning Sun and called it home over a sea, whose very waves whispered of stories yet unknown to the world.
24/08/06
Med.
