"The Old Man and the Sea" - A Weekend Freewrite.

I got progressively more and more frightened of ocean sailing until I just couldn't deal with the stress any more. I got a bigger boat hoping to feel just a little bit more powerful and secure, just enough to endure the vastness of the open sea, something that for my heart was both terrifying and alluring. Nowadays, of was the only thing that I could call “passion” in my life, of a writer that felt himself a failure.

This was a fascination with old roots in my life. As a small child, recently moving to this certain port city, I felt estranged in this new place, and heavily struggled to find my place between the other, far more proactive kids. In the end, I spend most of my time lonely, sitting whenever I could find peace and quiet.

It was in one of those times that I saw Old Man O’Reilly, a man respected but avoided. From afar I could see how even his fellow sailors avoided his eyes, and I couldn’t understand why, because distance didn’t let me see anything bad with him, but I felt a world of stories unfolding before me. I asked around, and one teacher, eager to see me finally talking to others told me:

Before you even look at that man, you want to learn about his history–and as briefly as a short recess allowed it, I was told about a life at sea, about a deep love that ended because of shallow waters, about a fight and a tragedy at sea. O’Reilly was a legend of sorts, but one related with secrets that no native wanted to share, and I felt like uncovering them, either by my poorly handled introversion, or maybe something else.

After a couple of weeks, I had a good idea of his schedule, and managed to surpass the barrier of sailor that didn’t let any kid get close. I got inside O’Reilly’s boat, and despite the sheer cold of late autumn, I waited. I woke up some minutes later, maybe hours, by the strong shaking of the boat, and the piercing gaze of the old sailor’s only eye, the only other person in the small boat.

The low and shy sun let me view his wrinkled and scarred face, like a human-leather reproduction of the Great Canyon, and many other smaller ones, he wore no beard of facial hair.

You should be in land kid, winter will be here soon –his voice the kind of rough that only comes after years of heavy drinking and not speaking much.

I want a story… your story

And he didn’t smile, didn’t scream, didn’t turn his boat around. It started to rain, and we got inside the captain’s area, me shaking while he made and served two cups of coffee. He stared at me, unblinking, judgmental.

It is no fairytale, but you want some?, you’ll get some

That was more than 30 years ago, and to him I own my first novel, the only truly successful one. Now, at the bottom of a whirlpool made with bad choices, poor sales of the works, and a crumbling marriage, I found myself again at the sea, alone with my memories and a bottle of “Santa Teresa” rum, O’Reilly’s favorite. Maybe this time I wouldn’t fall off the boat, or maybe I will, but get on shore ever again.