Salty dog carries no leash.

I had a ship once.

Beautiful and fantastic.

Pressure never cracking the frame.

A good captain lives and dies by his ship.

Never a trouble to sleep.

The fisherman left before sunrise. He knew the hue the glowing orb would cast even before it did. His boots are worn, cracked. Though he has enough money for the new and shiny ones, he chooses not to spend his treasure, deeming it as frivolous and unnecessary.

He has lived a quiet life for longer than he cares to admit. Season change seems like it comes every other day, the time passes so quickly now.

Often, when he sits down to eat his uncolorful dinner, he stretches his right arm across the table towards the empty chair. And sometimes, he’ll tighten his hand into a loose fist, pretending he’s holding onto someone, something.

When this silent act isn’t enough he’ll sit in front of his piano and play the only song he knows. A tune that has been in his head since he was a boy and his hair was still dark, and the eyes were glowing. Every so often a little more is added to it, but somehow it always remains the same. And sometimes, none of it will do and he’ll just sit there, his pale fingers resting so lightly atop the porcelain keys.

He knows when his head hits the single pillow he won’t be bothered by the silly emotions any longer. He sleeps deep, and dreams never waste his time.

And finally, after his boat is out to sea he is able to relax. He likes the dark mornings when the waves are violent. It reminds him of his early years getting breakfast in the busy diner before the day officially began. The noise seems to be about the same. And at times he’ll wonder if the noise was the water slapping back down to the body of the sea or if the fish were just that loud.

Different days bring different answers and he blames it on the color of the sky, which secretly, he hates to look up to. As if it really is that far above him, as if it has a god complex, as if it really, truly believes that everything else is that far below. No, he doesn’t care for how the sky mocks and points out his inadequacies.

The day passes in seconds and he cranks the line to the nets. Wondering how he spent so much time, thinking the same things, every single day.

And he comes home to his uncolorful dinner.

To his empty hand.

To his same ol’ song.

29.

He would tell his buddies with pride, while holding me, “Ha preso le sue gambe di mare lunghe prima che potrebbe camminare sulla terra.” (She got her sea legs long before she could walk on land.) They would chuckle, put in their two cents, pet my hair.

I loved every bit of it, being his pride, his joy. His world was precisely kept. His many different kinds of work all separate from each other. His people from those miscellaneous worlds, always juggled. But, he showed me all of them. I’d hold onto his hand, sit on his shoulders, or rest in his arms, taking it all in.

He was a strong man, a big man. He stood at 6′5. His stature showed he knew how to work, and that his broad shoulders could hold a world upright. His chiseled chin pointed high when he was happy, like he was trying to show off to the heavens. His skin was dark as molasses, and his hands were thick, etched with deep, deep lines. I would trace those lines with my fingers and ask to hear his stories.

He wasn’t a professional fisherman, though you’d never know. During the early summer months in Bari he’d often be found in the middle of the sea, helping those who needed it to catch their gold, or in his own boat named Grace di Barbara (Barbara’s Grace).

I remember the age of five better than any other. It was my most momentous, most fruitful year. The year of my dirty faced boy on the dock love, of my red polka dot bikini, of my cat Oscar, of my bear-dog Kotee, of my first espresso, of my first recollection of the den, and of course, of my first fishing with him.

I’d been on the boat as much as in our home. He taught me about the sails early on. I’d be in his arms and he’d point and explain. I’m sure that’s what began my love of pulleys. He’d set me down and move things, unwind things, and then ask me how to do it. I was comfortable there and liked the rhythm of the ocean, the shape of the boat named after his wife.

Not until my fifth birthday was I allowed to go fishing with him. He’d pat my hair, rub my cheek, as I’d cry to go out to sea with him. He’d say, “Next year Sassy. Not yet. Next year.” I’d see him off with Grandmama, and stay there, all day, all night, until he returned. I’d draw the sad shore line, the sad sun, the sad cliffs, the sad dock… They were all sad because I wasn’t there with him. And it went that way for quite a few years. “Next year Sassy.”

Finally, after a few years, I was living in the next year.

I went with Grandmama to see him off, in my white linen dress, on my Friday birthday. I held onto her hand as I cried to see him go. He wasn’t saying much as he climbed on board, and I was hurt by his lack of condolences. Grandmama smiled at me, wiped my tears, kissed my cheek. She turned around and started to walk down the dock, her long black hair and red flowy skirt blowing in the wind.

And then he said, “Well, are you coming with me? Come on Sassy, the fish are biting. We can’t spend all of our time on the land.”

With tears still on my cheeks, I screamed with such a Joy, the j must be capitalized. He laughed and helped me on board. He let me take off my sandals as he tightened my life jacket. I pulled my hair down from its braids and off we went.

I felt like I was seeing the world for the first time. I could taste the salt of the ocean, and I could feel the sun beating down on my face. He just smiled at me, and began to teach me the ebbs and flows of the life out here, of the waves, the tide, of the sky color, of the bait, the nets, the poles.

He opened up his cooler that Grandmama and I had packed for him, after we couldn’t see land anymore. Salami sandwiches, beer, brandy, bread, cheese, apples, water.

He said to me, “We have to eat and drink first so our bellies don’t distract us during the important times… You have to remember that, there are a lot of important times out here.”

We ate our sandwiches, our apples, our bread. He had a beer, I drank water first, before I pumped myself up enough to ask for a sip from his bottle. One sip was all he would give me before he started the, “Next year Sassy, next year.”

And then we began.

He showed me the nets, told me how we needed to keep them, how we had to repair them if needed. How we dropped them, how we lifted them. How sometimes you’d find someone else’s sorrows out here, how they weren’t to be disturbed because they weren’t for us.

Then the poles.

How we lined, how we baited for what we wanted, how we cast, how we retrieved, and how you always had to trick the first one caught.

His line went crazy first, and I watched him wrestle and wrangle it in, like a real cowboy. It was a small striped little fish. He held it up and inspected it, before saying it was too young. He got it off of the hook and held it in just one hand. He reached for his beer, and opened the little fish’s mouth. He poured a little of it in, and said, “Go tell your friends.” He tossed it back out and looked at me, and said, “Sometimes you have to create your own magic and luck.”

Then we waited. We were mostly quiet, until my line started moving, started pulling. I panicked, I forgot all of his words on how to handle this. I asked for help… He said, “Sometimes out here there won’t be any help. You’ve got to figure it out Sassy, you have to remember.”

I was so scared, and so thrilled. I wanted to show him that I was meant for this ocean, that I was meant for him. That I was a good girl, a smart girl, that I could run with the pack of men. And instinct took over. With all of my little strength I cranked, I lifted, I pulled, I towed, I wrestled. I moved with the water, I was the water.

Finally, it came in as the sweat was dripping from my brow. He helped me pull it in and started marveling in confusion. “How did you do it? This is a miracle.”

He gave me the line, and I held up my red trophy in glee. It was as long as four of my hands, and it was heavy for my little arm. I said to him, “He came to me from Grandmama… Look at how their clothes match.”

Over and over, he was astounded. “This is real catch Sassy. The surmullets don’t live here. The fisherman over sea in Croatia catch them, but they find them in the shallows on the floor. You’re a lucky girl, Sassy. This is quite a catch. Quite a catch. “

I couldn’t have been more proud, only because he was proud. My little red buddy was sure to make it possible for me to come out here every week.

And so it went… Every week on Sundays, sometimes after the family breakfast, sometimes before, we went to church out in the boat.

The older I became, the more I learned from him out in those waters. Sometimes we’d stay in the Adriatic, and sometimes we’d wade through rivers.

There were always fish.