The Last Light in Brinehaven

June 4th

I woke up just before dawn to silence. The buoy had stopped ringing.

It’s funny, the things you grow accustomed to. Fifty-three years in Brinehaven and I don’t suppose I'd ever truly heard that old bell until it wasn’t there. Every morning, every night, if the waves were rolling, the bell was tolling.

But this morning was different. I heard no bell. And, for that matter, no waves either. I thought perhaps the storm had whisked the buoy away, or maybe it had deafened me to any sound at all. It had raged most of the night, harder than any I can remember. The windows shook in their frames, and the chimney groaned as I thought my whole cottage might finally give in. I half expected to wake and find the roof gone.

But it was still there. The sea, however, was not.

I saw it first from the kitchen window whilst waiting for the kettle to boil.

It took me longer than I’d care to admit to understand what I was seeing. My old eyes blamed the morning mist first, then the storm, then themselves. I even fetched my spectacles from the bedside before I realised they wouldn't help.

The harbour sat empty.

It wasn’t a low tide either. No, it was truly, entirely empty.

Beyond the small wooden pier stretched mile after mile of dark earth glistening in the morning light, ridged and scaled like the hide of some enormous beast. The ocean had simply… vanished.

It was a short moment later that I found myself amongst half the village gathered on the cliffs of the harbour. We all stared. Some crossed themselves, others lowered their caps. Some of the young children asked where the water had gone. But none of us answered, none of us knew.

If I had been asked yesterday what the bottom of the sea smelled like, I’d have said salt, fish, and seaweed. However, I was rather shocked to find that wasn’t the case at all. I couldn’t smell anything. It was as though the sea had never been there in the first place.

By mid-morning, some of the younger folk had climbed down onto the exposed seabed despite the warnings. I watched them become smaller and smaller against that impossible plain until they looked like ants wandering across another world.

Some believed we might find treasure. A sunken ship, filled with gold!

Perhaps they were right.

I spent my whole life making a living from the sea, never once did I imagine I’d live long enough to see what it had been hiding beneath.

​

June 6th

The whole village walked on the seabed today. I don’t think anyone slept much last night. There was a queue outside the bakery before sunrise, everyone and their mother swapped rumours over warm loaves and tea. What had been found and explored was astonishing. Something I’d never even dreamed before. Stranded ships, an old buoy, I even heard the McLaughlin children discovered a whole whale skeleton.

By seven, nearly everyone in Brinehaven had made their way down the harbour steps. I’ve climbed those stairs thousands of times, but always into a boat, never onto the bottom of the sea itself.

The mud wasn’t really mud at all. It was firmer than I expected, ridged in long waves frozen in place. Our boots sank only an inch or two before finding solid ground beneath.

Everywhere I looked held something new, something that had no business seeing the light of day. Lobster pots I'd assumed long rotted away. Anchors larger than carts. Lengths of ropes turned white with salt. The ribs of old wrecks jutting from the ground, like the bones of animals laid to rest with the earth.

We came across the whale around noon. I’d seen plenty in my years at sea, but never like this. Its skeleton lay half buried in the silt, longer than three cottages laid end to end. Children climbed through its ribs while their mothers shouted at them to get down.

I couldn't help but wonder how many times I'd sailed over it without ever knowing.

Funny to think of how much of the world exists beneath your feet while you spend your whole life looking at the surface.

We walked farther than any of us intended. Behind us, the village got smaller and smaller every time we turned around.

The silence out there unsettled me more than I'd care to admit. There were no gulls, no scuttling crabs, no fish stranded in pools, not even the smell of decay. Everything beneath the sea was dead. It had been for a long time.

Tomorrow we’ll head out again. There’s talk of an old ship farther east that could be scavenged for parts. Truth be told, I think we’ll all go. We’re too curious not to.

​

June 14th

A week has passed, but the sea hasn’t returned. The first few mornings, everyone woke before dawn and rushed to the cliffs, convinced we’d see waves creeping back over the horizon. People placed bets, arguing whose would prove true.

But so far, no one’s been proven right.

A strange new routine has since been established. The able men walk the sea bed each morning whilst the women boil what little food remains and count the tins. The children treat the ocean floor as their own personal playground.

I envy them. They don't yet understand what a fishing village is without fish.

​

June 17th

We found Father’s boat yesterday. Or rather, what was left of her. The Margaret. Named after his mother. I recognised her before I was close enough to read the faded lettering. She’d gone down in the winter of ‘71. Father always insisted she’d broken free of her moorings in a gale and drifted out before sinking. Turns out she’d hardly travelled at all. She lay no more than three miles from the harbour, settled upright as though patiently waiting for someone to fetch her home. I stayed with her a while. I couldn't explain why. Perhaps I wanted, for a moment, to believe he was still on that ship, with me too.

​

June 21st

People have begun to bring things back. Nothing as absurd as treasure, but odd bits and pieces that might prove some use. Porcelain plates, rusted pipes, an old diving helmet. I laughed as I watched John drag home an anchor that must have weighed almost as much as he did. He says he’ll put it outside the pub.

Mrs Harper found her husband’s pipe too. He lost it overboard nearly forty years ago. She cleaned it with the corner of her apron and tucked it into her pocket without a word. I don't think she'll ever smoke it, but it’s nice for her to have.

​

June 27th

The shopkeeper has begun rationing flour. We’re not yet close to running out, but we are yet to know when another delivery may come. The mainland ferry hasn’t been seen since the storm. Can’t say I blame them. How would they dock?

​

July 3rd

Something else has changed. It took me a while to notice, the lack of water being a prominent detail and this less so. But there were fewer birds. There used to be hundreds, but now I might see one or two gulls a day. And when they are here, they don't stay for long. There’s not much left for them. Part of my job working at sea included watching the birds. After all, they always seemed to know something we did not.

John says they must have simply followed the fish. I hope that’s all it is. Though I can’t help thinking… If there are no fish left, what exactly are they looking for?

​

July 11th

It’s been over a month, tomorrow we’re walking farther than anyone has yet. Someone claims they’d seen another village on the horizon, though I can't say as to whether that’s true. But part of me hopes, longs even, that we’ll find something worthwhile.

​

July 21st

The novelty has long since worn off. Without the fish, the village has come to a standstill. I watched as John packed his bags with his wife this afternoon. I understand why he has to. They plan to walk to the mainland. There’s nothing left for them here.

​

July 29th

The McLaughlin family left. I watched as they set out for the horizon. They said they’d come back once the fish had returned, and I promised to keep an eye on their place. The village grows quieter by the day.

​

August 5th

I walked farther than I ever have in my entire life. My old knees ached, but I pushed through. It got to a point where I saw no more wrecks, no more lobster pots, nothing but endless ripples in the earth.

From where I stood, Brinehaven looked no larger than a handful of pebbles.

For all the years I’ve lived there, I never realised how small it was.

​

August 11th

I sat on the docks today and watched the clouds pass by. The sea has yet to return.

​

August 15th

Mrs Harper left. She cried more about leaving the church than she did her own house. She gave me a key to it, asking that I check up on it from time to time, and lock the door if I was the last to go.

​

August 22nd

I found the buoy. My old friend. It lay a couple of miles east, tilted on its side. I sat beside it for lunch. Funny thing, without the water, it’s just iron. A bit of rust. The bottom was coated with barnacles that have long since dried white beneath the sun. I rang the bell. It sounded quite nice.

​

August 27th

Only six cottages keep the lights on now. The evenings are darker than I remember. I never truly realised how much light people made until they were gone.

​

September 6th

The postman didn’t come. I suppose there’s not much point.

​

September 13th

There are three houses left. Mine, the Bakers’, and Old Pete’s. I didn’t see him today. I’m not sure if he's gone or simply keeping to himself.

​

September?

I’m not entirely sure about the date. It’s still September… I think? I don’t have much to say. There’s not much to do. I walk, eat, sleep, and walk some more. Sometimes I stand at the harbour and imagine what the waves used to sound like. Part of me thinks my memory may be fading. There’s not much that can be done.

​

???

I think I’m alone now. I walked through the whole village this morning. The curtains were drawn. The lights were off. I found Old Pete's back door open, a half-filled mug still on the table. Perhaps he finally left.

I hope so. I would hate to think he simply wandered too far.

​

This morning I woke to the sound of a bell. For a long while, I lay there. Convinced I was dreaming. But it came again. That oh-so-familiar clang that I’d grown to miss.

I didn't bother with my boots, didn't even think to look out the window. I barely pulled on my coat before I stumbled out into the cold morning air. The smell hit me first. Salt. It struck me so suddenly that I stopped where I stood.

After all these months…

My old legs hadn’t run in years, but in that moment they remembered how. I hurried through the streets, past boarded windows and overgrown gardens. Past the bakery where children once pressed their noses each morning. Past the pub, where the anchor sat propped up outside. Past the church, where Mrs Harper would spend her every day.

I heard the bell sound again as the harbour steps into view, and beyond them—

The sea.

It had returned.

Gentle waves rolled against the harbour wall as though they’d never been away. The old buoy rocked in the swell, faithfully ringing with each rise and fall. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying to one another like old friends returning from a long voyage.

I stood there for a while, unable to move.

Then I climbed down onto the beach. The water reached my feet first. It was cold, colder than I remembered, but that was no bother. I knelt, scooping it up into my hands. I let it run through my fingers, it smelled of salt and seaweed and home. I’d forgotten how alive the sea sounded.

I stayed there for a long, long time. Letting the tide creep high around my bare legs. When I finally turned around, Brinehaven was exactly as I’d left it. The church stood silent, the cottages watched with empty windows, the boats bobbed in the water, gently moving to and fro.

No one was here to celebrate with me. I thought of John, of Mrs Harper, of the McLaughlin children and their never-ending joy.

I wish they could all be here to see this.

We'd spent our whole lives believing we belonged to the sea.

Perhaps we'd had it backwards. Perhaps the sea had belonged to us. It had come home, only to find nobody waiting.

I think I'll stay a while longer.

Someone ought to welcome it back.