Sea Change

The day was perfect to be out on the water and, for once, he could appreciate

the appeal of the city that was otherwise just a soulless landmark to eighties

greed.  While there was no denying it took money to gain access to the Bay

in anything more luxurious than a dinghy, the sea itself didn't care who you

were Monday to Sunday.  Didn't give a stuff about inflated egos and

exaggerated self importance.

          Nevertheless, his chest swelled with satisfaction as he piloted the boat

out of the Marina and into the harbour, nodding to the skipper of a yacht to

starboard.  His lungs drank in the cool salt air.  "Yep, this is the life," he

mused. This is what it was all about, all those years of working his guts out. 

Now was the time to reap the rewards.

          His gaze rested on Miranda, soaking up the sun on the foredeck, her

jet-black hair tousled by the breeze, her vibrant young body squeezed into a

pale blue bikini.  Content just to sunbake behind her Raybans she took it all

for granted, as if it were simply her due.  He knew if it weren't his boat she

was stretched out on, it would be someone else's.  Some other old fools.

          His ex-wifes words seemed to float above him at the strangest times,

accusing him like the yellow eyes of the seagull that hovered over the boat

like a mascot.

"Hello Trudy," he greeted it fondly.  "we're divorced now, remember?."  After

all this time he still felt a twinge of guilt whenever he took a bimbo out on the

boat.  depite their domestic squabbles on land, he'd always felt close to his

wife on the water and, even now, she still seemed to hold him in her spell.  It

was worse at night. he'd awaken an hour or so after having reminded the girl

of the moment, that she loved more about him than his money.  Only to find

himself restless, lonesome and unable to sleep.  He'd feel an irresistable pull

to go up on deck and just sit there, watching the moon on the black water,

listening to the wash lapping the hull, the wind creaking like an unquiet ghost.

          Sometimes he thought he could see Trudy in the water, sleeping like

Shakespeare's Ophelia, her long hair floating like seaweed.

          And although he knew she was vey much alive and happily remarried

to a better man than he, he still felt responsible for the slow and painful death

of something inside her... her carefree nature? her youth?.  Maybe thats

what he was doing; trying to recapture the innocence, the hope of those early

years.  Exiled from his wifes companionship, he felt destined to spend the

rest of his life playing some increasingly seedy character in endless reruns

of a nautical soft-porn movie, trying to convince himself, the bimbos, Trudy

and the world that he'd made it.

          The bird knew different.