It Hurts Me Too

I wake up to the first sputtering whistles of the kettle on the gas stove. Its agitation grows, threatening the inevitable ear-shattering whistle. This is his way of getting me out of bed. I don’t know when this started. It never happened at home, only when we’re on the boat, and for the last six weeks it’s got me up like clockwork.

The rain patters at the window, like thousands of tiny fingers, tapping to be let in to the dry. It’s hardly warmer in here, I think. I stumble over to flick open the stopper on the kettle spout as it, and I, almost run out of patience. I’ve been awake for under a minute, and I’m already almost out of patience. A great way to start the day. I lean on the heels of my hands against the old kitchen unit. The stove sways in its cradle. It's on a swivel, so the rocking of the boat doesn’t throw boiling water over me before I can wake up, so I suppose it could be worse.

I stare at his back through the rain-soaked window. He’s in the usual big yellow raincoat, with the hood down. I’ve always thought that defeated the point, but he disagrees. The raindrops start streaking more horizontally as the wind gets stronger. It makes it seem like the boat is going fast, but we’re chugging along as usual at a snail's pace. He says we don’t need a new engine, the old one still works fine, we have all the time in the world. No wonder we’re out here for weeks at a time.

He hasn’t got the mugs out this morning, or the milk and tea bags. I bend down to pull them out of the cupboard. I feel the muscles in my back sore and stiff like old ropes. I drop a tea bag in each mug and pour in the hot water, mine almost full, his only halfway. We both like it strong, so I potter around the cramped cabin whilst they brew.

I shuffle over to the vinyl player, still bleary-eyed, the only addition I’ve been granted in my twelve years of crewing his boat. It sits on the same type of swivel as the gas stove, to stop the needle jumping. He’s never said he likes my music, but he hasn’t said anything against it. If you knew my dad, you’d know that is the equivalent of a flurry of compliments. If he doesn’t bash something, he might as well be stroking it.

I place Elmore James’ ‘It Hurts Me Too’ on the plate, start it spinning, and let the needle kiss the vinyl. I can’t hear that first vinyl crackle over the rain, but I know it’s there, adding a little warmth to the cabin. Even though we’re both proud British fishermen, on our small boat in the North English Sea, we only play blues music. This single will play on repeat for the next few hours till we reach the harbour. I pull on my waterproof trousers and boots as Elmore’s guitar riff emerges from the old speakers. The riff gleams and shimmers against the grey-white sky outside. The sun has shirked any attempt at a warm orange sunrise, and lazily chosen another bleak whiteout.

I pull on my thick woolly jumper and my own big yellow raincoat. The plinking of the piano gets muffled as I stuff a hat on my head and pull the hood up. Not father like son. I walk over to the kitchen unit, put a dash of milk in each mug, and carry them out to the small deck.

I nudge him at the back of his shoulder with the mug. He turns and takes the half-full one. He says nothing. I know today will consist of less conversation than usual, maybe none at all. I lean over to crack the side window to let some of the music out into the cold to join us. It’s already on its second repetition. I can’t make out the words, but I know what he singing. I hum it under my breath to keep myself company. A long-standing habit.

You said you hurtin'

You almost lost your mind

The man you love

He hurt you all the time

When things go wrong

Go wrong with you

It's hurtin' me too

I slurp the hot tea, it warms my throat and spreads into my chest. I look over at my dad as he not-so-secretly pours half of a hip flask into his mug. We stopped talking about that a long time ago. The ocean sprays up the side of the boat and tickles my cheeks. I squint my eyes. For some reason, I love this. I get this itching feeling inside on these days, the mornings we return to land. It’s not an itch to get off the boat; it’s to stay. The idea of being on solid land makes me uneasy. I was born in this very boat, far out to sea, and have only ever been able to relax out on the ocean ever since. This feeling of safety has pulled me back to the ocean, despite not being able to swim, evers since. A fisherman who can’t swim, the irony is not lost on me, or any of my family. None of my other siblings had any interest in joining my dad’s crew, the sea barely making it onto their list of reasons, my dad being most of them.

Even though they all abandoned him from the start, somehow he feels more betrayed that I’ve said I’m quitting the boat now too. This is my last day. All the years I’ve spent on this deck have accumulated, and that hasn’t left him with any gratitude. No, all those years are like deceit, to spend all that time, just to leave. At least the others had the balls to refuse from the start. Now I’m just a coward.

They were all smart enough to get professions that gave them an excuse; lawyer, accountant, and the rest. I wasn’t smart enough for any of that, no college or university, straight onto the boat. So despite sticking around, whether for a lack of options or not, I’m getting the silent treatment till we get to the harbour.

I lay my hands on the flaking railing of the boat as the harbour emerges from the low clouds; it’s closer than I was expecting. I feel the itching sensation inside of me grow. I remind myself I’ve already decided, if this is what it takes to make things work, so be it. I peer over my shoulder at Dad, he still won’t look at me. Not even in my direction, let alone in the eyes. He wears the peak of his hat pulled low over his weather-beaten brow. I’m sure his perpetual frown pulls it down even more.

I get the ropes ready without thinking; I’ve done it thousands of times. He takes his post at the wheel, and I stand up at the front ready to step onto the concrete dock. I remember when I was given this job as a young lad, I had to jump; I was so small. I felt like a daredevil. I would see how big a gap I could jump over each time, jumping earlier and earlier. Dad never said anything. On the inevitable occasion I pushed my luck and couldn’t make the jump, I bashed my chin on the concrete ledge and fell back into the water. I flailed in the water for a moment and swallowed a few mouthfuls. Before I knew it, he was leaning way over the side of the boat, pulling me out of the water with one hand. He’d never picked me up like that before, or since. I felt like an angel with broken wings being pulled back up to heaven. I just sat spluttering on the deck whilst he returned to the wheel without a word.

I step gracefully onto the dock, throw the rope over the metal cleat, and pull till the boat is snug. I wrap and tie it, easy, like brushing my teeth. I step back into the boat. I go into the cabin and grab my duffel. I can feel him watching me. I want to get out of here before the guys come to collect all the boxes of fish. I walk out, set one foot on the dock, and stop. I turn my head back to the sea. With one foot in the boat, I’m still part of it, still on a wave, still in motion.

“You leave this boat, you know you can’t come back, lad.” He says like he hasn’t already said so ten times over, which he has. I can hear Elmore James singing from inside the cabin; Dad can keep it.

I step off and walk. The singing fades along with the waves, spray, and wind, as I make my way into the village. Even though it’s getting quiet now, it still rings in my head. The concrete feels like it’s rocking under my feet. It’s always this way when I get back to land until my ears balance out.

I try to push it all to the back of my mind as I beeline for my destination. I repeat Cressy’s words in my head to drown out the ocean already pulling me back. It’s her or the ocean. I chose her. Cressy.

Our relationship has been on the rocks for the last few years. Me coming and going like the tides has eroded it, but not smooth. It’s taken chunks, now it’s jagged. Me away at sea, always the root of all blame. So after a final screaming match before I left, she gave me the ultimatum. She’d asked me to give it up for years, and I explained why I couldn’t. That I was made for the sea, that I couldn’t leave my dad, that it would crush him. None of it mattered; none of it got her what she wanted. When she said it, I knew she meant it. She said I had till I got back to give her my decision. It took four weeks, then I spent a week bottling it up, and finally told dad. This past week it has rubbed like sandpaper between our every interaction.

I reach the bottom of our steep road, pause, sigh, and start my ascent. I haven’t been able to walk this far in a straight line for a while, but on this hill, I haven’t missed it. I should be excited to get there and tell Cressy the news, but instead I feel apprehension, like I’m in trouble, been doing something I shouldn’t.

As I reach the front door, I see the back of her through the window. Her slender shoulders and waist. Her arms must be folded in front of her, I see her elbows. I wait a moment, thinking she might sense me and turn around. She seems to be fidgeting with her hands, talking to someone. Someone in the apartment, she’s not on the phone. I tap on the front door. I can’t be bothered to rummage around in my duffel for my keys. I see her jolt, turn halfway towards me, then step away from the window to come to the door. She must know it’s me.

The lock clunks in the door, and she opens it. She stands in the doorway, like I’m there to sell her something. Neither of us talks, I see her read my puzzled face.

“Hi Chris,” she blurts, something is swimming behind her words, a skittishness, I tilt my head.

“Can I come in?” I ask. She’s standing right in the doorway; she doesn’t move. “What’s going on?”

She looks down at her hands, covered up to the knuckles by the long sleeves of my jumper she’s wearing. I wait a while. Nothing.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, forcing a smile. “I left the boat. I thought about what you said, you’re right. This can’t work for you if I’m away so often, if it can’t work for one of us, it can’t work for either of us. So, I left it. I’m not going back. We can work this all out. I’m staying here, so we can work it out.” I feel like I’m rambling, “I’ll get a job in town, maybe at the fishmongers or something. We can…” I trail off, stop talking, she hasn’t looked up. This isn’t going at all like I thought. I can hear Elmore’s voice ringing in my ears again.

“Cressy, you’ve got to say something. Can I come in? I’m not standing out here all day.” I can hear the agitation in my voice bubbling, I think of the kettle, I’m running out of patience.

“We can’t. It’s done Chris, it’s over.”

My face scrunches, I shake my head a little, like I’m trying to evade a persistent fly.

“What? No, you said, leave your dad, you said it’s me or the ocean.” I point back in the direction of the ocean, “I left my dad, I’ve chosen you, what’s the problem? You said..”

“I know what I said!” She cuts me off, it seems she’s out of patience too. A few minutes and we’re both out of patience, it’s like I never left. She goes quiet again.

“Well?” I ask. I drop my duffel, I’m not coming in.

“I’ve met someone.” She fires out like I left something on the floor, and she stepped in it.

“No, you haven’t,” I say without thinking, even though I already know it’s true, “What are you talking about? Who?”

“It’s not important who,” she sighs and brings her hand to her forehead, and starts smoothing out her perfect eyebrows. I think about Dad’s hip flask, I could do with the other half around about now. I think how that other half is long gone, and give a little chuckle. She snaps her eyes up at me. I pick the duffel up.

“What am I supposed to do? You know my Dad won’t have me back after this.” I say more to myself that her. I can almost hear her thinking, ‘he’s your dad, he’ll have t,o’ but then she stops herself. She’s met him, also not a fan.

She softens her tone, “Look, I’ve finally got a good thing going. I don’t want to risk that for a chance at us, us that has barely worked, and probably won’t work even if we try.”

“It’s been 6 weeks, Cressy!”

“A lot can happen in six weeks Chris, I don’t want to risk losing this; it’s a good thing.”

“Four years, Cressy, against six weeks?” I ask, like I must be getting the math wrong. I look at the ground, I sigh all the air out of myself, like steam escaping a pot when the lid is lifted. “Your mind seems pretty made up.”

“It is.” she mumbles.

I sling the duffel over my shoulder.

“Ok, fine.” I say resigned, I start turning to leave, but stop. I know I shouldn’t ask, I already know the answer, I don’t need to ask. But I do, I want her to know I know. I feel like enough of a fool without having her think I don’t know. I turn my head back and look her in the eyes.

“Kevin?”

Her eyes widen slightly, but she tries to restrain herself. I know it’s him. I; ve seen that look before, when we’re playing cards, and she’s sure I don’t know what she’s got, but I guess it anyway. I look at her a little longer; it’s like she wants to say ‘Go fish’ like I’ve got it wrong, but I know her cards. She pulls her lips inwards. I give her a small smile. She scoffs and turns away, slamming the door in my face. Elmore starts ringing in my ears again as I walk back down the hill.

I don’t look back, I keep walking till I reach the pub at the dock. Dad won’t be in here; he’ll be drinking at home. I sit by the window looking at the dock, looking at our red boat bobbing at the dock. I sink pint after pint of Guinness like it’s medicine. I watch the sun go down. I walk out to the dock, reach our boat, and step in. I fall into the cabin and drag myself into the bed. I feel the boat rocking me to sleep. I feel safe, the itchiness is going away. I wonder if Dad will give me a second chance. It doesn’t matter, I’m supposed to be on the sea. He knows it’s his boat or someone else's, might as well be his. Who else will put up with him?