Bound to the Sea

Part 2 - Fisherman's Folly

~ Kinereigh Point, Inis Mór~

   ~Aran Islands, Ireland ~

Ellis O'Donnell did not believe in fairy tales. He believed in the strength of his fishing net and the unpredictability of the weather. He believed that tea cured all ills and that his little piece of Irish coastline was the bonniest place in the world.

He did not believe in fate, but fate believed in him.

Inis Mór, to most, was not a particularly hospitable place to live. Ellis' predecessors had stripped the island of its trees long ago, and the wild ocean winds had blown away most of the fertile soil, leaving nothing but bare rock. Through sheer tenacity, the island's occupants had built back up the soil, mixing sand and seaweed, coaxing the land back to life so that it might feed them. Ellis' grandparents had worked the land, his parents had fished the waters, and Ellis had inherited their little croft house and the arduous lifestyle that came with it. Though most would turn their nose up at such a life, Ellis thrived in it. That is, until a late September afternoon when the course of his life shifted, like a wavering compass needle pointing suddenly north.

Ellis was, above all things, a practical person. The sea had always provided a livelihood for him, but in recent weeks his stores of fish had grown scant. So that September afternoon when his stomach's loud growl punctuated his need for a final trawl before the weather grew any colder, he had to act on it. Tempting as it was to put his feet up in front of the peat fire he had started, Ellis pulled away from the warmth of the hearth, crossed his tiny croft house to the front door, and shrugged on his heavy coat. The house would be warm and dry when he returned, and with any luck he would have a large fish to roast over the fire.

The front door creaked on its salt-worn hinges as he swung it open. Briny sea air caressed his face. The sky was a downy blanket of low, grey clouds. Ellis loped down the scrubby field that lay before his house, sidestepping limestone boulders that jutted from the turf. Eventually the scrub grass gave way to the strand. It could not reasonably be called a beach; it consisted of linear segments of the same grey limestone interspersed with pools of seawater that had collected in the round pockets where the tides and weather had worn the stone away. Ellis picked his way across this uneven surface with practiced strides until he reached the dock that jutted out into the cold sea. Slate grey water already foamed around the keel of his curach. The boat bobbed and tugged against the ropes that secured it to the dock as if it too was eager to be off. Ellis untied the boat, climbed aboard, and took up the oars. The small craft leapt forward into the surf. Ellis skirted the boat around the spit of land the local seal colony inhabited. A few of the animals watched him warily from their perches on the seaweed-slick stones.

No sooner had the fisherman left the land a dozen boat-lengths behind than the wind started to pick up, buffeting the small craft and rocking it side to side. The clouds above blackened frighteningly quickly. The gulls and kittiwakes that had been circling overhead turned their pointed wings and fled for the shore. Ellis glanced at the sky in intermittent intervals as he rowed, the concerned line between his brows growing deeper. The first fat drop of rain cut a path through his hair and traveled like an icy finger down his neck. The wind whipped around the boat and howled like a banshee, a portent of danger.

Just get your net in the water, Ellis. He mentally chided himself for his poor timing. The pitching of the water caused Ellis' tackle box to slide across the slick floor of the curach and crash painfully into his shin. He swore in Gaelic, trying to anchor his rods and nets to the sides of the boat with his feet.

Sudden flashes of lighting split the sky into jagged puzzle pieces and the wind tore the clouds open. The water roiled, pitching the craft to and fro like it weighed no more than a child's toy. The fisherman's fingers gripped the gunwale until his knuckles turned white. With a mighty heave that caught him by surprise, the boat lurched up and perched for a moment on the crest of a wave. A sense of weightlessness took hold of him, and it was as if time froze for a moment. From this vantage point Ellis' stinging eyes caught sight of the boat dock in the distance. Standing on the dock was a woman, a ghostly white silhouette against the roiling sea behind her. Her black hair caught the wind like a pirate ship's flag. Before he could even register surprise at the sight of her, Ellis' boat tipped forward and he pitched headfirst into the water.

In the agonizing slowness that accompanies moments of great peril, the fisherman's senses registered everything in vivid detail. He could hear the rain drumming on the overturned sides of the boat. His fingers grazed the rough wood of the curach, grasping desperately but finding no purchase. Waves crashed over his head, again and again until salt water filled his ears and mouth. He pushed through the water, choking, trying to swim toward the shore, but the land had disappeared behind curtains of rain and fog. His arms and legs burned with exertion. Panic gripped his heart.  As the last of the strength left his limbs, he sank into the churning, chaotic blackness as the sea closed over him. His eyes desperately followed the trail of bubbles that left his mouth as if by will alone he could call the air back into his lungs. Something sleek and grey crossed his field of vision before his eyes closed and he was swallowed by the sea.