Ryan gazed past the thin snow covered undergrowth of the stunted forest. Through the branches, the ocean teemed and tossed under a peach winter sunset. His face hot, tingly and numb. He breathed, making clouds in the crisp air. The island was silent. Ryan's parents and his sister, Mary, went out to pull crab pots for tomorrow's Thanksgiving dinner. Wetness and wisps of steam glistened off his burning face.
Out behind his father's fishing and hunting gear shack, Ryan found an old rope. The rope had been coiled up and left to rot under leaves and seasons, too old and brittle to be used as an anchor line anymore. Ryan sawed at the wiry rope with his silver Leatherman, giving himself about ten feet of line. Bits and pieces of frozen seaweed and jellyfish hugged at sections of the rope. Ryan smelled low tide.
Ryan clenched at the salty, stiff, sun-washed rope as he coiled the line around the inside of his palm and outer elbow. He searched for his parent's skiff plowing through the tormented turquoise ocean. No skiff. No stuttering Evinrude outboard, just a steady cold and brisk ocean wind. Having coiled the rope into a neat frozen oblong, Ryan ducked under the wall-less awning of his father's gear shack and stepped onto the boarded walk that led to his family's cabin. His Xtra-tuffs made a thud-thum, thud-thum, thud-thum, on the two by six makeshift boardwalk.
Before opening the cabin door, Ryan turned again toward the ocean. The puffy clouds broke up towards the horizon, letting bands of pink and orange sun dance wildly off the winter water. No skiff. Ryan walked inside.
Before everyone left for the pots, Ryan's father had stoked the ironwood stove chock-full and left the air vent wide open. The stove chuckled and roared, casting dry warmth in every direction. The heat pulsated woozy blood through Ryan's head. He tossed the stiff rope on the varnished kitchen table and walked over to the stove clumsily to close the vent. It shut with a gasp. The quarter cut pine wood sputtered and crackled.
Ryan pulled off his brown Carhart jacket and thoughtfully placed it over one of the matching wooden varnished chairs. He sat at the head of the table and grabbed one end of the frozen rope, still stiff and coarse.
Wrapping his warm hands closely together over one end of the rope, Ryan worked the fibers. He twisted and rubbed, twisted and rubbed. Eventually, enough of the line was pliable on one end to make a bite in the line with a trucker's hitch. One of the few knots he remembered how to tie.
When he was fifteen, his sister Mary thirteen, and his father ran a 32 foot long liner for salmon, they pulled up next to a tender to deliver their catch. His father ordered him to tie up the bow line. The deckhand on the tender shouted out for the rope, Ryan tossed it to him. He was left figuring out how to tie off onto the bow cleat. The boat rocking, he tried to tie off, but it kept slipping.
"Ryan, cinch up that goddamn line! Or we're gonna swing round!" His father stormed up to the bow.
"Here!" he pushed Ryan against the boat cabin, "Come under, then over, around, back, then an over hand and cinch. Got it?"
"Yeah."
"You'll get it." His father sighed, placed his big hand on Ryan's head, "You'll get it." They ambled back to the deck, where Mary was grinning.
"I tied off the stern."
"That's my girl!"
Ryan's hands were rubbing raw from working and twisting the old rope. He dropped it on the table. The knot gave a hollow whack. He brushed his palm against the roughly hewn D-logged pine walls as he entered the living room. The ceiling shot up twenty five feet like a wooden temple. Rafters broke the space above the living room every eight feet. Ryan breathed deeply of the cool pine wood and family dust. The living room glowed with Ryan's childhood.
Their mother often read and practiced arithmetic with them. Countless times Ryan's mother corrected his habits.
"We read left to right, top to bottom, turn your book over."
"Left to right, top to bottom." Ryan repeated quietly.
"That's right." An instructive satisfactory smile grew on his mothers face.
"We don't start counting with five or in the middle of a page. Start at the beginning on the left side."
"Where does it end?" Ryan asked thoughtfully.
"Well. Huh. It never does honey."
"Left to right, top to bottom. It never ends honey." He said with a sigh.
"Ha! That's right honey!" Ryan's mother kissed him on the forehead and walked into the kitchen.
Above the couch hang snap-shots of Ryan and his sister. Most of them showed them playing outside, some were family pictures taken over the years. One shows Mary standing over a brown bear with a 300 mag. She wears the beaming smile of hero. She was seventeen. She'd shot the bear straight through the skull.
Their parents had gone into town to get food, candles and other needed supplies. It was mid-September, the weather reliably unpredictable. Dark cumulus clouds formed in the southeast and kicked up frothy white caps. Ryan and his sister knew their parents weren't coming back until morning.
"Help me carry this wood in, would ya sis?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Need it tonight with this wind."
"Yep. I know."
Ryan began gathering wood in his arms. "You always know. Don't you?" his sister took a quick hushed gasp.
"Jesus. Ryan. Turn. A. Round."
"Wha…oh, fuck."
Rooting around in the plywood compost bin, grumbled a portly brown bear. It sniffed violently at the compost box and began rocking it with its front paws. Dusk was drawing in; the colors of the world fading to a fuzzy black and white. A confused wind picked up and swirled around Ryan. He smelled the thick musky scent of the bear.
The hungry brown ceased its efforts at rocking the bin to pieces and stopped trying to cram its head within the narrow compost slot. The big Brown walked towards Ryan slowly, rocking back and forth with its massive muzzle, snuffing up the ground as it went. What a beautifully silly creature, Ryan thought. He smiled crazily. He could hear the waddling beat of the brown bear's steps.
Doot-ta-Doot-ta-Doot-ta-Doot.
The world erupted in a roar. Warm liquid splashed on Ryan's face. The violent roar steadied to a silent ping.
"You alright Ryan?"
"Yeah," Ryan blinked," Yeah. I'm fine."
"Thought you were dead."
"Yeah. Me too." Ryan rubbed his right arm sleeve across his face. The blood had cooled, became sticky, clung to his face. "Thanks, sis." It was darker now. Nothing left to see but a hazy dark splotched silhouette of a silly dead bear.
That same heroic, smirkish smile found its way into many of the pictures on the living room wall. Mary after she got proposed to, happily showing off her engagement ring. Mary talking passionately into a microphone at her college graduation. Mary, Ryan's arm around her shoulders, holding up her degree. She was a big little sister and Ryan loved her for it – envied, but loved her.
The pictures of himself were mostly of him staring off somewhere, smirking. Ryan with his hands in his blue jeans, shrugging at the camera. Ryan sitting at the kitchen table, reading Vonnegut and chewing his fingernails. Ryan sleeping curled up on the living room couch with his Xxtra-tuffs on. Ryan chuckled to himself at this last one. His father had pointed to it once. "That's my boy," he'd said. "That's my boy!"
Turning from the pictured wall, Ryan's face felt hot; a pain pinched his throat. He eased his hands into his pockets and stared out the large bay view window. Twilight had set in. The vibrant colors of the horizon and the rolling rich turquoise ocean – gone. The ocean sloshed and crashed in a dreamy black and white, silently behind the glass pane.
He sensed warm liquid dripping down the side of his face. Ryan patted at it and looked at his hand. Nothing. He retreated back into the kitchen. The fire still sputtered and spat lovingly. A slow gentle wave washed over his body. Opening up the vent, the fire began to lull like Autumn wind. He picked up the thawed out old rope. The cool dampness felt good in his hands.
Ryan grabbed a chair and sauntered out of the kitchen, dragging the wooden chair behind him with scrape. Standing underneath one of the rafters, he swung one end of the rope over the beam. It coasted over, dropped, and swayed like a pendulum. He slipped the frayed end he had cut with his knife through the bite in the line and cinched it up on the beam. Again, climbing up onto the kitchen chair, Ryan made another loop on the frayed end.
He thought he heard a pinging or a ringing. Ryan stopped. The entire living room was filled with a dying roar, fading to a steady ping.
Ryan jumped off the chair, grabbed the rope near the ceiling rafter, and tested his weight on the line. The rope groaned low around the beam as Ryan swung with the rope. Hand over hand, he lowered himself back onto the chair. He put his hand through the bite in the line he'd just made. Ryan grabbed the standing end of the line and pulled it through the bite to make a cinching loop. He slipped the loop over his head.
The pinging stopped.
Doot-ta-Doot-ta-Doot-ta-Doot.
Out behind his father's fishing and hunting gear shack, Ryan found an old rope. The rope had been coiled up and left to rot under leaves and seasons, too old and brittle to be used as an anchor line anymore. Ryan sawed at the wiry rope with his silver Leatherman, giving himself about ten feet of line. Bits and pieces of frozen seaweed and jellyfish hugged at sections of the rope. Ryan smelled low tide.
Ryan clenched at the salty, stiff, sun-washed rope as he coiled the line around the inside of his palm and outer elbow. He searched for his parent's skiff plowing through the tormented turquoise ocean. No skiff. No stuttering Evinrude outboard, just a steady cold and brisk ocean wind. Having coiled the rope into a neat frozen oblong, Ryan ducked under the wall-less awning of his father's gear shack and stepped onto the boarded walk that led to his family's cabin. His Xtra-tuffs made a thud-thum, thud-thum, thud-thum, on the two by six makeshift boardwalk.
Before opening the cabin door, Ryan turned again toward the ocean. The puffy clouds broke up towards the horizon, letting bands of pink and orange sun dance wildly off the winter water. No skiff. Ryan walked inside.
Before everyone left for the pots, Ryan's father had stoked the ironwood stove chock-full and left the air vent wide open. The stove chuckled and roared, casting dry warmth in every direction. The heat pulsated woozy blood through Ryan's head. He tossed the stiff rope on the varnished kitchen table and walked over to the stove clumsily to close the vent. It shut with a gasp. The quarter cut pine wood sputtered and crackled.
Ryan pulled off his brown Carhart jacket and thoughtfully placed it over one of the matching wooden varnished chairs. He sat at the head of the table and grabbed one end of the frozen rope, still stiff and coarse.
Wrapping his warm hands closely together over one end of the rope, Ryan worked the fibers. He twisted and rubbed, twisted and rubbed. Eventually, enough of the line was pliable on one end to make a bite in the line with a trucker's hitch. One of the few knots he remembered how to tie.
When he was fifteen, his sister Mary thirteen, and his father ran a 32 foot long liner for salmon, they pulled up next to a tender to deliver their catch. His father ordered him to tie up the bow line. The deckhand on the tender shouted out for the rope, Ryan tossed it to him. He was left figuring out how to tie off onto the bow cleat. The boat rocking, he tried to tie off, but it kept slipping.
"Ryan, cinch up that goddamn line! Or we're gonna swing round!" His father stormed up to the bow.
"Here!" he pushed Ryan against the boat cabin, "Come under, then over, around, back, then an over hand and cinch. Got it?"
"Yeah."
"You'll get it." His father sighed, placed his big hand on Ryan's head, "You'll get it." They ambled back to the deck, where Mary was grinning.
"I tied off the stern."
"That's my girl!"
Ryan's hands were rubbing raw from working and twisting the old rope. He dropped it on the table. The knot gave a hollow whack. He brushed his palm against the roughly hewn D-logged pine walls as he entered the living room. The ceiling shot up twenty five feet like a wooden temple. Rafters broke the space above the living room every eight feet. Ryan breathed deeply of the cool pine wood and family dust. The living room glowed with Ryan's childhood.
Their mother often read and practiced arithmetic with them. Countless times Ryan's mother corrected his habits.
"We read left to right, top to bottom, turn your book over."
"Left to right, top to bottom." Ryan repeated quietly.
"That's right." An instructive satisfactory smile grew on his mothers face.
"We don't start counting with five or in the middle of a page. Start at the beginning on the left side."
"Where does it end?" Ryan asked thoughtfully.
"Well. Huh. It never does honey."
"Left to right, top to bottom. It never ends honey." He said with a sigh.
"Ha! That's right honey!" Ryan's mother kissed him on the forehead and walked into the kitchen.
Above the couch hang snap-shots of Ryan and his sister. Most of them showed them playing outside, some were family pictures taken over the years. One shows Mary standing over a brown bear with a 300 mag. She wears the beaming smile of hero. She was seventeen. She'd shot the bear straight through the skull.
Their parents had gone into town to get food, candles and other needed supplies. It was mid-September, the weather reliably unpredictable. Dark cumulus clouds formed in the southeast and kicked up frothy white caps. Ryan and his sister knew their parents weren't coming back until morning.
"Help me carry this wood in, would ya sis?"
"Yeah, yeah."
"Need it tonight with this wind."
"Yep. I know."
Ryan began gathering wood in his arms. "You always know. Don't you?" his sister took a quick hushed gasp.
"Jesus. Ryan. Turn. A. Round."
"Wha…oh, fuck."
Rooting around in the plywood compost bin, grumbled a portly brown bear. It sniffed violently at the compost box and began rocking it with its front paws. Dusk was drawing in; the colors of the world fading to a fuzzy black and white. A confused wind picked up and swirled around Ryan. He smelled the thick musky scent of the bear.
The hungry brown ceased its efforts at rocking the bin to pieces and stopped trying to cram its head within the narrow compost slot. The big Brown walked towards Ryan slowly, rocking back and forth with its massive muzzle, snuffing up the ground as it went. What a beautifully silly creature, Ryan thought. He smiled crazily. He could hear the waddling beat of the brown bear's steps.
Doot-ta-Doot-ta-Doot-ta-Doot.
The world erupted in a roar. Warm liquid splashed on Ryan's face. The violent roar steadied to a silent ping.
"You alright Ryan?"
"Yeah," Ryan blinked," Yeah. I'm fine."
"Thought you were dead."
"Yeah. Me too." Ryan rubbed his right arm sleeve across his face. The blood had cooled, became sticky, clung to his face. "Thanks, sis." It was darker now. Nothing left to see but a hazy dark splotched silhouette of a silly dead bear.
That same heroic, smirkish smile found its way into many of the pictures on the living room wall. Mary after she got proposed to, happily showing off her engagement ring. Mary talking passionately into a microphone at her college graduation. Mary, Ryan's arm around her shoulders, holding up her degree. She was a big little sister and Ryan loved her for it – envied, but loved her.
The pictures of himself were mostly of him staring off somewhere, smirking. Ryan with his hands in his blue jeans, shrugging at the camera. Ryan sitting at the kitchen table, reading Vonnegut and chewing his fingernails. Ryan sleeping curled up on the living room couch with his Xxtra-tuffs on. Ryan chuckled to himself at this last one. His father had pointed to it once. "That's my boy," he'd said. "That's my boy!"
Turning from the pictured wall, Ryan's face felt hot; a pain pinched his throat. He eased his hands into his pockets and stared out the large bay view window. Twilight had set in. The vibrant colors of the horizon and the rolling rich turquoise ocean – gone. The ocean sloshed and crashed in a dreamy black and white, silently behind the glass pane.
He sensed warm liquid dripping down the side of his face. Ryan patted at it and looked at his hand. Nothing. He retreated back into the kitchen. The fire still sputtered and spat lovingly. A slow gentle wave washed over his body. Opening up the vent, the fire began to lull like Autumn wind. He picked up the thawed out old rope. The cool dampness felt good in his hands.
Ryan grabbed a chair and sauntered out of the kitchen, dragging the wooden chair behind him with scrape. Standing underneath one of the rafters, he swung one end of the rope over the beam. It coasted over, dropped, and swayed like a pendulum. He slipped the frayed end he had cut with his knife through the bite in the line and cinched it up on the beam. Again, climbing up onto the kitchen chair, Ryan made another loop on the frayed end.
He thought he heard a pinging or a ringing. Ryan stopped. The entire living room was filled with a dying roar, fading to a steady ping.
Ryan jumped off the chair, grabbed the rope near the ceiling rafter, and tested his weight on the line. The rope groaned low around the beam as Ryan swung with the rope. Hand over hand, he lowered himself back onto the chair. He put his hand through the bite in the line he'd just made. Ryan grabbed the standing end of the line and pulled it through the bite to make a cinching loop. He slipped the loop over his head.
The pinging stopped.
Doot-ta-Doot-ta-Doot-ta-Doot.
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