Waves

Greg had never liked the way the waves rolled—the other guys called it “rolling,” but it was really more like lurching up and down, you know? Slamming the sides of the Nightingale, his father’s baby—rusting out on the sea with Greg at the helm. What a pretty picture. Not really lurching—like getting hit with a baseball bat, like when he had showed up at Eddie’s Little League game just in time to watch him crumple as that scrawny kid’s bat struck him smack on his catcher’s mask, whack! Like getting punched. Greg wondered if any of the other boys ever got hit, if Eddie had maybe even hit them himself. Eddie; he could be the next Manny Ramirez. Maybe a prizefighter. Greg would have thought on this a little longer but then the bow of the Nightingale crashed down on another fucking wave and he felt hot bile in his throat, and wouldn’t Dad be happy to see this, his son retching into that water, feeding all the little fish he needed to feed the family. The other guys slapped him on the back and Andy said that maybe he should just sit down ‘cause the water’s a real bitch today and he could take over for him, cap’n, but Greg just laughed between hurls.

“Can’t let my old man hear you saying that kind of shit, buddy,” Greg said, looking nervously up at the gray sky and crossing himself. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and forced down another wave of nausea. “Let out the trawl—we’re gonna catch some fish today.”