Wednesday, May 25, 2016
In a dry stream bed he awakens, awash in a warm comfort that seems to press down on him, beckoning him to drift back off despite the cold and damp surroundings he has found himself in. His eyes scan from brush to sky, the cocoon-like thicket of twisted thorn and vines a net hung low overhead as light cuts through the maze. He listens for clues, still not awake enough to investigate further by sight, and grows evermore curious as the expected chatter of insects and birds is absent; in its place a low and constant pulse-like echo. While it can be heard clearly, he instinctually knows it is distant, a far away beacon unlike any sound found in nature.
He sits up slowly and rubs his eyes, despite a body which fights to betray his will and remain down on the cold ground. There is a softness to his surroundings, like a watercolor painting where edges and colors bleed into one another. He sits between steep embankments on either side; exposed tree roots, silt, rock, and dry dirt layered on top one another like a decadent slice of natures cake. The streambed stretches ahead to a bend about 30 yards away, cut off by a large fallen oak tree, its old trunk charred and grey. The faint smell of smoke reaches him just as sight sharpens to confirm the billowing expanse of steam and ash from beyond the bend. The smell is sweet and sharp, unlike the natural tones of wood and brush.
He is driven to his feet by curiosity, the circumstances so peculiar that fear has not had the chance to creep in. Where is he? How did he get here? As he slowly paces forward he struggles to pull memory; something, anything that can provide context, but comes up empty. His one and only memory is opening his eyes moments ago in a strange grey forest, as if this place had willed him into existence. As he inches closer to the smoking bend ahead he finds himself stopped, feet planted and resolute. By the time mind catches up with body he sees her - a figure lurking ahead amongst the trees.
They stare at each other for a beat; for how long he cannot be sure, as time itself seems confuse in how it should unfold. She is young - a child, her white sun dress billowing in the breeze to reveal muddy bare feet contrasted by toes freshly painted in a youthful pink hue.
"Hi there," she squeaks, her grin wide and playful as hair cascades from her face in sections, appearing wet with caked mud and dirt. Although far away, her voice is clear, like a whisper in his ear that blocks out the constant pulse sound which has been growing ever louder as he approached.
"Where are we? who are you?" He murmurs, voice low and gravely, like the first attempt on vocal chords rusted from neglect.
"Follow ME!" her words trailing behind her as the flash of her white dress streaks off into the woods, away from the smoking oak tree ahead.
His constitution has returned, the dreamy slumber lifted from his body as his surroundings sharpen into focus. Her glowing white dress trails off through the dark grey palette of gnarled trees and brush. With one final inquisitive look ahead at the smoking oak tree, he takes off in pursuit of her.
"Wait!" he croaks, "Where are you going?!" His legs become aware of a screaming pain as he scrambles up the embankment and trails behind her into the dark forest.
The trees echo with her laughter, as he increases pace, ducking through brush which claw at his skin like tiny, bony fingers. After a short chase he comes to a clearing, colorful and alive with pastel flowers and grain which ripple in the wind like waves. The girl skips ahead in the tall grass giggling as he haunches over to catch his breath.
"Hey!" he gasps, "Just hold on a minute, will you?!". The girl doubles back, skipping around him in a wide arching circle, all the while laughing in the innocent way that children do.
"You can't awake till darkness breaks, so lets play games together!" She sings, her nursery rhyme cadence like that of a hop-scotch melody sung at the playground. The low, pulse-like sound is louder now, harder to ignore. "You can't awake, till darkness breaks," she repeats while hopping around the meadow, her demeanor refusing to confront the strangeness of the circumstances.
He looks up at her, then to the pastel colored foreground; soft and fuzzy, like a scene painted by George Seurat, each swaying flower a colorful bouquet of pointillism. She holds her white dress in each hand like a sail as she glides atop the floral canvas, repeating her mantra, louder this time. "You can't awake, till darkness breaks...". He looks past her, up into an amber sky; clouds painted in romantic realism as if by a masters' brushstroke. "You can't..." she sings, voice almost a shout...
"...Awake," he whispers, cutting her off. "That's it!" he proclaims, "I am DREAMING!" Relief and exhilaration in his voice. The girl has stopped skipping, her smile and playful gaiety replaced by panic as she returns his gaze. "That sound... it must be my alarm!"
"No... please, you don't understand," she pleads, the levity in her voice now gone. She glances at the Forrest and then back to him with haste.
"Yes, I'm in a lucid dream, it all makes sense now," he says, as if to himself. His prideful discovery is cut short by a tug at his hand. The girl, her white dress caressing his feet, is now pulling at his arm, tears welling in eyes wide and searching.
"You must listen to me - do not wake up... not yet!" She weeps.
"What... but why?" His concern growing by her saddened demeanor.
"You're not ready... I'm not ready yet!" she pleads. Tears roll down her cheeks, dried dirt from her face turning dark and red as it rushes towards her chin. "When you awake, I will no longer exist, and I just want a few more moments here before I give all this up." She gestures towards the flowers, the Monet-like sky and the green meadow where a hopscotch course lay pieced together by pedals as bright and vibrant as sidewalk chalk on a pavement.
The Forrest which outlined the warm meadow in an ever-darkening contrast of shadows, now seemed to creep in all around, corralling the light into a narrow path that lay ahead.
"What's... what's going on?" He gasps, the look on her face solidifying panic in his voice.
"It's started," she whispers, "There is still time for you," she speaks, pulling him towards the lighted path.
"I...I want to wake up now...I'm sorry!" He shouts, the pulse-like sound now engulfing the sky.
"It's ok," she smiles, her kind, playful eyes speaking in absence of sound, "I forgive you John". His name - YES! His name is John, and he is asleep, and now he wants to end this nightmare. "Follow me, do not stop, keep going until you see the light!". She lets go of his hand and, like a bolt of electricity, leads the way as darkness closes all around.
In an instant they have cleared the meadow, which is absorbed into darkness as his feet leave the grass to pound against Forrest floor, its purchase hard and unforgiving like cold, cracked blacktop. As he plunges deeper, the Forrest swallows all light, the only constant being her white figure which glides across the dark like an apparition. Fear drives every step, the pain in his legs return instantly upon leaving the meadow, a sensation which should not exist in a dream, causing his confusion and panic to claw at his skin like a thousand tiny glass cuts. The white dress ahead now glows, its clarity persisting despite the absence of light in the void ahead. The pulse-like thumping is now a drumbeat in the sky, like warnings sent out from an approaching armada. His heart matches its rhythm as both reverberate off trees, which now seem to uproot and take chase behind; an army brought to life by the beating drums. Their slick, black branches slashing against the ground like steel chains against pavement.
Just as the white dress ahead seems too far to follow, its glinting beacon growing fainter with each passing heartbeat, there is a brilliant burst of light. John leaps, all around him is illuminated for a brief instant that holds long enough to see a tunnel like passage directly ahead, which his trajectory has set him plunging towards. With footing lost, ground seemingly absent, he tucks his body into a ball as he tumbles through the thicket, steel and glass-like thorns slashing his forearms as he free-falls through the unknown.
On the cold, wet pavement he awakens. His senses heightened; the unmistakably sweet smell of antifreeze mixed with oil and smoke enter his nose, causing him to wince. The sound of a constant, pulse-like roadside defibrillator beats in his ear, along with the scream of a fire trucks high pitched horn somewhere close by. His eyes manage to part as the sharp red and blue light from a fleet of service vehicles stab at his retinas. He struggles to keep his eyes open, the onslaught of lights and sounds competing against the sudden awareness of pain which covers him like a led blanket.
"John," a mans voice calls - stern and matter-of-fact, "John, stay with us buddy..." A pen light shines in his eyes as faces hover above, scanning and probing his vacant stare.
"He's going back under," another voice shouts somewhere off to his right, his tone more urgent than the first. The pulse-like sound now whines to a hum, it's near inaudible tone like that of a dog whistle being blown inches from his ears. The chaos of sound and light begins to fade away as pain is snuffed out by the closing of eyelids which can stand no more. Darkness returns and he drifts away.
His eyes are peeled back with a jolt, electricity engulfing every cell in his body as muscles contract, pulled tight to the point of ripping as if he had been submerged into icy waters. While his eyes face upwards towards the sky, it is not stars to be seen, but rather memories, which come flooding back in his brain like ripples returning from waters edge.
Night. Headlights searching ahead through dark Forrest road. Radio broadcast cut short by extreme weather alert. Rain. Darkness. The illumination of his phone below. A text message. "I love you." A smile. A flash of light. The sharp crack of timber followed instantly by the gunshot of thunder. An oak tree crashing on pavement. The jerk of car breaks and the sudden swerve in trajectory. A bend in the road. Screaming tires. Headlights kissing oak as car skids by. A driveway ahead. A figure. Impact. Darkness.
When sight returns he finds himself surrounded by bodies. Their faces stern, but hopeful - triumphant even. "On three, ready? One... two...", he is weightless, the carnage of smoke and debris visible now as the team of men in blue parade him through the wreckage. He travels backwards, floating along a path of glass, oil, and sweet smelling green fluids. To his right, the smoldering cluster of fallen oak comes into view and grows sidelong in his peripheral, its trunk disappearing off into nearby forest. To his left the remains of a car - now reduced to a twisted ball of steel and smoke.
The entire scene now pieced together in full as the men stop at sirens' source to adjust him for departure, his axis tilted as they heave him upright like Dracula arising from his casket; arms folded tight and secure under gurney straps. Directly in front of him a mailbox which has been cut down, laying splintered on a driveway next to the colorful outline of a hopscotch course, drawn in pastel chalk. A man hovers just beyond, his cameras flash illuminating a white sheet which rests loosely over a small figure. Its pure, bleached sun dress-like fabric covers all but two tiny feet which peek out from underneath. As he feels himself being hoisted up and into the waiting ambulance, he notices the final detail; bright, youthful pink toes, their hue a contrast against the grey, dark night. As doors slam shut and he feels the lurch of tires gripping pavement, he forces his eyes to close, tears bleeding down from his cheeks.
Artwork credits in order of appearance:
-Oryan (available at signature galleries Waikiki)
-Richard Oliver (available at signature galleries Waikiki)
-Walfrido Garcia (available at signature galleries Waikiki)
For artwork information contact me at Jocka@signaturegalleries.com
Saturday, May 21, 2016
At waters edge he stands
Atop the moss and peat
The tension starts to leave his hands
as calm laps at his feet
A willow stretches through the sky
To shade this quiet place
A refuge tucked in natures heart
That knows not time nor space
The clear blue stream flows day and night
As leaves fall to adorn her
A name revealed when kissed by light
He calls her "Stony Corner"
For like the stones made smooth by travel
The boy has landed here
In times when life starts to unravel
and love fades into fear
The willow speaks through wind and rustle
the boy, he understands
Her words are clear - albeit subtle
she beckons for his hand
And with a plunge, he reaches deep
beneath the glassy pool
His eyes which once were made to weep
Now glazed calm and cool
For in his fist he holds not stone
But memories of pain
Their callous growth wash from his bones
And through his feet they drain
The stage is set as birds look on
Perched high up in the Forrest
This theatre formed in natures' round
Send praises from the chorus
With arm coiled back, he plants his step
tension built from life's drama
Now finds resolution in waters depths
As curtains fall on the opera
And still he stands, at waters edge
No roses at his feet
But beauty felt by letting go
Does surely smell as sweet
As time persists - turns boy to man
bring lessons to be learned
The stream may dry, rocks turn to sand
And willow someday burned
Fear not, my friends, for none of this
Can ebb heaven and boy apart -
For in our minds lay natures kiss
Her water laps at our hearts.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Oh how the ridge does come alive
Beneath the mid-day blaze
And fragrant blossoms gently sway
Above the floral stage
The Orchid grows with slender ease
As she drinks the summer rays
Flaunting colors for all to see
Is how she spends her days
Hibiscus has a noble cause
For soaking up the glare
To signify a fellows love
Behind his lady's ear
But hidden underneath it all
Amidst the shades of green
lies the suns one true love -
The Honolulu queen
With quiet grace she sips the light
-the other flowers abhor-
Her modest nature stirs delight
The sun, he does adore
He burns and burns, each ray for her
While others seem to plunder
She yearns and yearns, yet hesitates
He soon begins to wonder
The rest, you see, translate his love
In bright exaggerations
But only Cereus, in modest grace
But only Cereus, in modest grace
"Please, my queen, take your share -
You have not but a thorn"
And to the sun she only smiles
Her love for him is torn
What tragic fates of time and love
Could keep her from his light?
A secret that she dare not share -
She only blooms at night
The Roses and the Lilikoi
Try to gain affection
But the sun no longer sees their color
Nor looks in their direction
The days they pass, the sun he waits
High up in the sky
Until one day his heart does break
And slowly starts to cry
"Why, my love, oh why can't you -
Just open up your heart?"
And to his tears she says but this;
"We're half a world a part"
For when the day upon the ridge
Surrenders final light
There lives a world beneath the stars -
A still and quiet night
In all his youth, his brazen glow
He felt that he was king
But by his sight, through vanity
He could not see a thing
And still he burns, just like before
Upon the floral stage
But tempered by his newfound plight
His light he now does gauge
The Plumeria and the Morning Glory
thirst for more and more
And yet he rations all his might
To visit his amore
The fates of time and circumstance
Has broken many a-will
But by the moon he steals a glance
Upon the quiet still
And there she reigns, as others sleep
Tired from the day
His bonnie queen does see him peek
And whispers "come what may"
From months of patient nourishment
She gathers up her plume
The time it comes but once a year
Her heart begins to bloom
A sight which must be earned through time
He see's was worth the pain
Her ivory petals delight the stars
as view begins to wane
The sun he stares from worlds away
A truth he understands;
It was not he that gave to her -
But she, his growth demands
For love, you see, like time and light
can travel near and far
His heart can burn throughout the night
And reach her as a star
Monday, April 21, 2014
The crowd, which only minutes before had welcomed golf’s recent breakout champion to the 17th hole at the 1927 Shawnee open with hopes to see an unforgettable display of golfing precision, were now bristling with a mixture of confusion and horror. At the tee was Tommy Armour; a tall and handsome man whose signature black hair had begun surrendering to the deep veins of silver that would ultimately brand him the “Silver Scot” - golf’s greatest teacher and one of the most enigmatic names to ever play the game. After a year of consistently scoring ahead of such names as Walter Hagen and Bobby Jones, both drinking buddies and golfing legends in their own right; Tommy Armour was fresh off his win at the US open, just the week before. Despite undeniable skill and talent, he now found himself placing yet another ball on the tee after hitting 7 consecutive shots in the water hazard. The Scottish iron master had given up all hopes of securing a victory after the second ball took a bath, and now his common sense was in question as he aimed once again towards the water. When he finally walked off the green, he had given up 23 strokes on a par 5. This travesty was the worst single hole score in PGA history…a title which still holds to this day.
The spectators believed they were witnessing a man coming apart at the seams - the result of a game that mirrors the everyday pressures of life. In golf, as in life, a man cannot hide behind the talent of the many or ride the coattails of a team, but instead must rely on his facilitates alone if he wants to find himself being cheered on the approach to the 18th green. To understand what happened that fateful day, you first must examine the man behind the tee. The layout of that par five would have told any reasonable golfer to follow the given formula: Drive conservatively far right, lay up around the bend on the fairway and reach the green in 4, maybe 3 shots, max. However, Tommy did not look for routes that were “safe” or “easy” – in golf, or life. Instead, I like to think he saw a shot in his mind directly over the vast water that none before had dared try. With a confidence and grit attained by many men that have seen war, he decided the overall total of his score was no excuse for choosing the “easy shot”, when the “right shot” was staring him in the face.
If you haven’t already guessed, I am speaking of my grandfather. I grew up knowing very little about him, other than the stories I was told from my family and what small nuggets of information are available through the internet. The best glimpse into his mind is accessible through his published works on golf; “A round of golf with Tommy Armour,” and “How to play your best golf all the time”. My father did not tell me much about him, but, to be fair, my adolescent concerns were so full of x-men knowledge and late night Showtime adult line-up scheduling, that perhaps his attempts to go over my heritage fell on deaf ears. I find it ironic that a boy, so caught up with fictional superheroes, did not see the connection between the extraordinary and my own heritage. For every documented feat of golfing prowess he achieved during his career, there are countless other tales of his life off the course that have defined his larger than life persona.
The 1920’s were a decade that could very well be considered the golden years of golf in America. Far removed from the bright and colorful magazine covers of the modern golfer, the sepia-toned images of this era capture the pioneers of the game; men who walked the fairways in pressed suits and fedoras. This was a gentleman’s game, played without the influence of multi-million dollar sponsorships and payouts. The prize for these men was holding that silver cup in front of their peers, rather than hoisting the over sized cardboard check. This practice makes understanding that fateful hole complicated, seeing how pride and fortune were both slipping away from the Silver Scot as he fired shot after shot into the water, with little more than a shake of the head and a cool determination to “get it right”. Seemingly out of character for such a talented and competitive player, this curious hole can easily be explained away as the result of bad judgment, or, more likely given his reputation, a bad hangover. However, in context, I believe there is an all but forgotten lesson to be found in his actions that day; an ideal of why golf is more than just a game, but an examination of character. Who better to give this lesson but my grandfather; a man who was named the "teacher of the century" by Golf Magazine, but a legend.
As with every great hero, Tommy came from humble beginnings. The cold and rainy links of his native Scotland served as both playground and battlefield for young Tommy. The local course of Braid Hills is where he cut his teeth in competition. As there were no tournaments back then specifically for boys, Tommy was allowed to compete against the men; ultimately forcing his way into the amateur team at a very young age. It was here that Tommy gained a confidence that would stay with him though life. Over the years, dogged determination coupled with raw talent elevated him through the ranks, making him among the leading Scottish amateurs at the age of 18. There is much to be said of his upbringing, and how the right circumstances tempered the raw metal in young Tommy to become the Silver Scot he is known as today, however it is not my intention to write a full biography here; I will leave that more knowledgeable men like Ed Dixon and Dr. Milton Wayne, whose articles on my grandfather are available in the links below. As Ed put it; “The world for Tommy Armour must have been looking mighty fine at the end of the 1914 golf season...unfortunately for Tommy, as for thousands of other young men, the golden days were about to vanish in a haze of gun smoke.”
Before he could answer the call to professional golf, Tommy was compelled to fulfill his call to service. WWI had broken out and introduced the world to a new terror of industrial war-time innovation - the tank. These iron giants roamed the front lines like mechanical monsters, and young Tommy would be among the first tank gunners for the Allied forces to face them head on in France. He rose quickly through the ranks of the Tank Corp, earning many medals for bravery and the reputation as the “fastest machine gunner in the British Army.” Lifelong friend and future PGA star Bobby Cruikshank, who served alongside Tommy in France, later recounted the infamous story of how Tommy single-highhandedly captured a German tank and strangled the German officer to death with his bare hands when he refused to disarm. His military career, however, was cut short by a mustard gas explosion which rendered Tommy blind in both eyes. Months later he would slowly regain use of his right eye, however his left eye was rendered virtually useless for the rest of his life. With metal plates in his arm and skull, along with the loss of his depth perception, a post war career in any kind of precision sport - especially golf, seemed impossible.
After the war, his good fortune returned when, on a voyage to the states, Tommy crossed paths with another up and coming golfer; none other than Walter Hagen. The ‘Haig’ took a liking to Tommy and, by the time they entered New York harbor, Tommy had talked his way into a job at the Westchester-Biltmore Club as the ‘club pro’, with Hagen’s recommendation. Soon, Tommy had adjusted his game to compensate for the loss of his right eye, and once again gained a reputation as one of the best golfers around.
The man who had mastered the iron giants of war torn Europe seemed equally lethal on the fairways. With his powerful hands, Tommy could compensate nearly every other facet of his golf game with superhuman power and precision in his iron game. It is said that he could tear a deck of cards in half. To put his strength in context, Jack “the Manassa Mauler” Dempsey, Heavyweight boxing Champion of the world from 1919-1926, challenged Tommy to prove his strength during a smoky social gathering. Tommy, always the showman, grabbed a billiard cue by the tip and held it out level at arm’s length. The Manassa Mauler picked up the tab that night.
By the time he had turned pro, Tommy was a naturalized US citizen and had earned a reputation as a fierce competitor. To add to his many amateur and exhibition titles, he had 27 professional tour victories that included two Majors; the U.S. Open in 1927, the PGA championship in 1929. Never one to be singularly labeled, his career would see him earn many titles ranging from “war hero” to “master storyteller”. His famous ‘iron-like’ hands, which were once described as resembling a ‘bunch of bananas,’ also knew the gentle touch required to play the violin, which he did at a concert level. Sports author Ross Goodner said of him: "At one time or another, (Tommy Armour) was known as the greatest iron player, the greatest raconteur, the greatest drinker and the greatest and most expensive teacher in golf."
When I look at those old photographs of my grandfather, I see a quiet confidence in his eyes that seems to define a forgotten generation. The sheer effort and determination required to get ahead - not just as a golfer, but in any field of the depression era, is a lesson we can all benefit from today as we consider what it is we hope to accomplish in our own lives. I wonder how clear the line between what is ‘right’ and what is ‘easy’ has been in the decisions of my past. The thought of my grandfather on that fateful day; a man who had already attained the success and reputation as a master of his craft, yet boldly sacrificing not only a decent score, but the entirety of any hopes of contention in pursuit of ‘the right shot’, is one of the most prized images I hold in my heart. To have such a clearly defined stage by which to confront all the subtle influences and conflicting motivations of a man’s character is a rare moment, and I believe any good student of life can benefit from a little introspection during trying times.
The ability to hold ones composure under stress is one of the most admirable and useful traits among men, and, in the world of golf, more valuable than anything you can buy at the pro shop. My grandfather had the kind of grit and moxy in his soul which made him as well suited for the chaos and smoke of a battlefield as he was for the heart pounding pressure of a 18 hole playoff. It is a testament to the bloodline to point out that my brother, Tommy Armour III, currently holds the PGA record for best total score in a 4 day tournament. What irony it is to know stubborn determination has led two Armours - a generation apart - to set two PGA records; the ‘best’ round of golf , and the ‘worst’ hole of golf. While his accomplishments and bravado are envious alone, it was his stubborn resolve that I found most impressive. A single hole, nor a single tournament, was worth changing his fundamental belief to always strive for excellence; no matter how impossible a task it may seem.
I am not a golfer, nor am I half the things my grandfather was, but I have always been a good student. Above all the great titles he held, ‘teacher’ is the one that has forever attached itself to his legacy. When I think of the collective gasps of the crowd as they watched him set the world record for ‘worst hole in golf history,’ I am reminded of ‘The Road Not Taken,’ by Robert Frost.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
It is widely understood that Frost meant his decision to take the path of the few had lead him to a different destination than those who took the more popular route, but I disagree. He tells us this with a ‘sigh’, as if to say the decisions of our past do not weight on one or two diversions through the woods – we will end up at the same clearing given the lengthy stroll of our lives. Rather, it is the willingness to diverge – the scars we gain by foraging on through the thicket of our doubts and fears that will define us in the twilight of our lives.
As in life, the ‘right thing to do’ can be an inconvenient observation. It might be the knowledge that we must sacrifice for a greater good, or for the deeply instilled instinct of ‘self-preservation’. Most men can shake it off in the name of ‘practicality.’ Most men want to make par – not to risk a comfortable life for the slim chance of a glorious one. Most men quit when they know they cannot win, or abandoned their principles in times of great struggle. Most of us compromise, some more than others. Most men, however, are not legends.
Dr. M. Wayne article in HKgolf: http://www.hkgolfer.com/features/tommy-armour-greatest
Ed Dixon ebook chapter: https://sites.google.com/site/eddixonhome/ed-s-ebook/chapter-7-tommy-armour-the-iron-master
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
|image © Gabriel Burchman|
Everything about the man spoke of confidence on the open sea. His demeanor was relaxed, his actions deliberate and resolute. At the age of five he saw his first marlin pulled from the deep blue waters off the coast of Havana by his mentor and, in an instant, his love affair with the ocean was solidified. The wonder and awe of that fish quickly turned to panic as it began to thrash about the tiny skiff, nearly tearing the boat to pieces and threatening bodily harm with ever swipe of the bill and whip of the tail. With a few smooth and deliberate lashes of his club, the old man had once again brought stillness to the boat, comforting the trembling boy with a wink and a grin. “This fish is our brother and deserves a dignified end,” he said, a fresh mist of blood coloring his face. “You must steady your mind and act out of love, not fear. This boat is not unlike your small body; act swiftly when the time comes, otherwise fear will tear your tiny vessel apart, making you ill equipped to travel such vast expanses as the sea…or the many years of a lifetime.”
The boat reached a point where the sun had chased away the remains of darkness causing the man to stir for the first time since leaving the channels of Lahania. He sat up, throttled back the motor to a slow crawl and scanned the horizon. A small plastic hula dancer near the bow cleat swayed gently at the hip in response to the change in momentum. His cheeks were the color and texture of supple leather and they pushed up against the folds of his eyes as he squinted from the shimmer of the water, creating premature wrinkles that trickled down his face like those of a worn billfold. Smiling, he cut the throttle and closed his eyes as his tiny boat sliced through the gentle rolls of the waters. With a deep breath he took in the salty air and exhaled loudly, opening his eyes as he began to set himself up.
|image © Gabriel Burchman|
As a boy, he would wake up far before sunrise and run to the kitchen, where he would grind fresh beans and brew a pot of coffee on the stovetop, filling the entire kitchen with a wonderful bittersweet smell. His father had long since abandoned any attempt to take the boy with him to work in the sugar cane fields, as the boy was single minded in his pursuit to become a fisherman. With a steaming thermos of hand ground coffee and a few ham croquettes saved from the previous night’s dinner in the pocket of his coat, the boy would race through the streets towards the docks, just as the roosters began to wake the rest of Havana. The same newspaper vendor would smile at the boy in recognition as he made his way through town, darting past the drunks which littered the sidewalk outside of the all night cantina. Once on the waterfront he would remove a stack of thimble sized plastic cups from his coat and go from slip to slip offering the strong brew of Cuban coffee to dock workers and street sweepers. For a quarter he would pour a shot; equal parts espresso and sugar straight from his father’s fields, a nickel would get you a second. No matter how much demand he met, he always left the last few shots for his mentor. Together, they would load the boat with gear and he would offer the handful of shiny earnings to the old man in payment. This ritual would make the old man smile and shake his head as they rowed out past the harbor into a golden sunrise.
“Fish,” he exclaimed, eyes wide and animated, “I hope you have rested and are as ready for me as I am for you!” He was in good spirits as this was his maiden voyage on the tiny boat which he had purchased from a former employer just the day before. In his youth he would charge out of the docks and stop just a few miles off shore in eager anticipation to begin the days haul. But now, older and wiser, he knew to avoid the competition of the shallower waters and head much further out. The true treasures of the sea, as in life, require patience and faith found deep in the abyss of the unknown. Now he enjoyed the journey and rested, admiring the company of spinner dolphins and breaching humpbacks as they followed him through the water. With his line set and the coffee warming his body, he sat looking back towards the faint beacon of a buoy near land, the light blue path of his wake slowly eroding the past and joining it to the present.
His days fishing as a boy were cut short when his father forbade him to continue learning from the old man, who had gone so long without a single fish he felt him to be truly unlucky. His father sent him to help his uncle in the fields of a “cafetale,” a coffee plantation where his uncle taught him the hard work involved with picking the beans he so loved to smell. Conditions were harsh and not meant for a boy with hands as smooth as his, but his father hoped he would learn structure and a strong work ethic as the calluses began to appear on his hands; just as he had gained working in the sugar fields. The boy worked very hard which pleased his father and, over time, grew to appreciate the work as that which a man must do to provide. Still, not a day went by that he did not dream how beautiful the sea looked when painted by the midday sun.
When he was not lending his body to harvest the fruits of the earth, the boy was honing his fishing skills at twilight, navigating to and from port by the glow of Havana. His eyes became accustomed to night fishing and he felt very happy to live out the rest of his days this way; earning a wage along with his father’s pride by day and rolling in the moonlit tides at night. Although the cafeteles tired his body, he was revitalized at the onset of dusk with the hope of a big haul which he would bring to his mentor and friend who, now too old and frail for the indifference of the sea, had given the boy his wooden skiff despite much protest and insistence on paying for it. The man loved the boy as a son and needed no great gesture or fanfare for such an act. He felt safe and carefree adrift in that boat, every square inch of wood soaked in memories and seasoned from the oil and scales of past bounties; however the social tides of the day were making it hard to ignore the storm gathering on the horizon.
Just before his sixteenth birthday, the tensions of a changing state and the ever present fear of a future under Castro’s regime had driven his father to action. The boy was awoken suddenly in the night and hurried into the bed of truck, where his father clutched him tightly as they lay amongst chicken wire and wooden crates, which shed tiny white feathers as the truck sped off. It happened so quickly the boy might have believed it to a dream; the white feathers dancing in front of his face like a shaken snow globe as he looked up at the moon. He tried to speak, to ask what was going on; but was met with his father’s calloused hand clamped around his mouth and a tighter, more urgent embrace. After a short and confusing ride, the boy could be certain this was no dream as he found himself alone on a dock watching the truck drive off the way it came, his tattered shirt damp from the cold steel of the truck bed and his pockets stuffed with what little U.S. dollars his father had collected. The boy stared at his father as the truck slowly absorbed into the darkness of the night. They held a gaze suspended in time; a moment between them more insightful than all the moments that preceded it. A short time later he was rushed into a small vessel that sat idle at the dock. Known as the “Camarioca boatlift,” The U.S. coast guard had guided convoys of private boats wishing to rescue friends and family from the turmoil of Castro’s regime and bring them back to Key West. A distant cousin had agreed to pick the boy up and they sped away in the night surrounded by the flashing beacons of heavily armored coast guard vessels, making him one of the last Cuban exports to be welcomed onto American soil. He now traveled at night using only moonlight, so as to avoid the painful memory of his father in the bed of that truck; a stern and hopeful expression on a face betrayed by eyes that could not hold back the sorrow of their circumstances.
The shrill cry of a seabird broke his gaze, which had been focused on the quivering tip of his rod.
|image © Gabriel Burchman|
If Havana was the soil by which the boy had begun to grow, Key West was the hard ground by which he fell onto prematurely. Just like the small indigenous limes which had a strong bite and thinner skin than the more common variety, so too did the boy become strong and bitter on the inside; his size stunted by the sudden removal from the land which had nourished him. The town, although limited in its industry and confined to only a four mile square radius, was a place where a fisherman could thrive. The salvage divers and longshoremen were unlike the noble old man who taught him to revere the ocean and all her treasures; they buzzed around the docks like sharks in a feeding frenzy, setting out to sea with plunder in their hearts. Although he had more knowledge of fishing than many men twice his age, no boat was willing to give him work, as he appeared much too small and fragile for the labor required at sea. Time and necessity left him resigned to washing dishes and cleaning tables at a bar in the heart of Duval Street. Days passed and the harsh smell of bleach-soaked rags began edging out the rich memories of home, sterilizing whatever youthful optimism still remained inside.
One of the unfortunate realities of life is that pain, both physical and emotional, acts as the catalyst for growth. A muscle must be ripped in order to become stronger; our souls must endure darkness in order to see the full spectrum of the light. Two years had gone by when news of his father’s disappearance reached Key West. Castro had polarized Cuba, turning neighbors against one another and leaving many families torn apart by the militant regime. One night his father was questioned about his involvement in the Camarioca boatlift, the next morning he did not show up for work in the sugar fields. While the boy loved his father and missed him very much, something inside him had dried up, leaving behind a soul too salty for grieving. He had paid his dues over the years and now worked behind the bar, absorbing the hard-bitten mentality of the fishermen who came in at night to drink and fight like drunken pirates. Four hours passed before he excused himself out the backdoor and walked down the alley towards the water. A hard rain caused the shirt to cling against his back and the moon shone bright, illuminating the rain all around him. He remembered that last night with his father, his back cold and damp from the steel truck bed, feathers dancing around him like snowflakes in the sky. He sat there on the break wall and, for the first time in a long time, felt the sea calling him to head out from stagnant waters and into her deep unknown.
|image © Gabriel Burchman|
It was with similar determination that he himself had been lead towards the islands. Although the late hours at the bar did not afford him the harmony of Havana’s coffee fields at dawn and the harbor at dusk, he had been anchored to Key West. A part of him had hoped that, one day, his father would walk in; suitcase in hand and a smile on his face. While the news of his father’s fate had pulled that anchor free, it did little to change his disposition. No longer a boy, he had grown accustomed to his circumstances and made peace with it. The regulars kept him entertained and their stories of the sea seemed to supplement his dreams of joining them. His favorite patron; a writer with big broad shoulders and a shock of white hair, would sit at the bar telling stories until empty pint glasses lay before him like bowling pins, in danger of being knocked over by his constant swaying. The young man would listen to accounts of backyard boxing matches and fishing adventures from the Gulf Stream upon his boat, “The Pilar”. The stories made him smile and think of his friend, the old man who had taught him to look beyond the vastness of an endless ocean and see the treasures that wait for those with faith. The thought of his old mentor along with the loss of his father seemed to stir something inside; like the clashing between climates that twist and turn together to bring the wind by which our sails depend.
The abrupt downpours of Key West brought diversity to the usual bar crowd, as tourists would rush in to avoid the rain and pass the time with drinks. On one such night, the young man was cleaning glasses with his back to the door as the old writer recounted a battle with the biggest fish he ever hooked. Just as he was reaching the climatic ending, he suddenly was quiet. The young man spun around with the intention of cursing the patron for leaving him in suspense, but instead, stood breathless as he saw the reason for the sudden silence. A beautiful girl, tanned skin with long dark hair and almond shaped eyes, had walked up to the bar and smiled at the young man, who stood as solid as an oak. “You must excuse my friend,” the writer said, “for I seem to have bored him into paralysis with my fishing tales.” She blushed, her eyes jumping from the floor to the young man’s admiring expression. “Please, take my seat,” he said, as he stood and patted the bar stool, “won’t you sit and breath some youth back into this fine young man?” She thanked him and sat down as the young man fumbled to pour her a glass of wine. He set the glass in front of the girl and gave a smile to his friend.
“And you, can I offer you a beer?”
“Why not,” the old man grinned, tilting his head towards the girl, “between fishermen.” He took the full pint and gave a deep nod to the young couple, leaving them smiling awkwardly at one another. Finally, the young man spoke.
“Hi,” he managed, “My name is Manolin.”
The fish below was unwavering and the young man fought furiously with the rod to keep control of his small boat, which had been pulled through the water for the past three hours like a matador snagged upon the horns of an angry bull. His muscles were fatigued and sore, but his eyes remained bright and optimistic. “Fight all you want my brother,” he growled through clenched jaws, “I many not be as strong as I think, but I know many tricks and I have resolution.” The sun beat down on the water setting it ablaze, causing sweat to pour from his brow. Just when he felt the struggle was too great, he heard the confident voice of his old mentor beside him; “What is to give light must enduring burning.” He ignored the pain and smiled wildly at the impending showdown.
|image © Gabriel Burchman|
The next evening he went about his duties behind the bar. “What’s the matter with you?” The writer asked, noticing the defeated look on his face. The young man told him of their evening, how alive he felt when he was with her, and ultimately how circumstance had once again knocked him back down to the hard ground. The old man studied him for a beat before getting up and leaving, not saying a word.
“Thanks for nothing you old drunk!” He shouted, angry at his indifference. Hours passed and the crowds came in and went out like the tides, until he was once again alone with his sorrow. The door opened and the old man slowly made his way to the bar, set an envelope down and stood there, his eyes searching the weathered grain of the wooden counter.
“There is a thin line between an old man and an old fool,” he said, his voice low and measured. “I lost the Pilar six years ago in a poker game. I haven’t been on a boat since; much less chased any marlin out in the gulf.” The young man gave him a confused look. “There was a time when I came close to the man from my stories, fearless and hell bound. But time has a way blurring the boarders between aspirations and actions.” His head tiled slightly towards the stack of empty pint glasses. “And those don’t help much any!” The young man smiled, hoping to see his friend return the levity. He looked up, his eyes heavy from years of regret. “The truth is they all got away…all the big fish I’ve ever hoped to catch. I’ve resigned myself to this stool right here, re-writing the past in my mind, night by night, pint by pint.” The young man stood breathless as the writer smiled, got up and walked away, stopping at the door. “When the time comes, let your actions be guided by love, not fear. Act swiftly, or the latter will have you seated next to me someday.” Before another word could be said he walked out into the night. The young man watched him slip away before finally noticing the envelope before him. Inside he found three crisp $100 bills and a handwritten note which read; “have the boy report to work tomorrow at Mallory square upon the SS Leeward, 6am sharp. I have secured a spot for him as a deckhand until his replacement arrives on board in Maui.” His eyes went wide, jumping to the bottom of the page with excitement. “P.S., let me know when you want to play another game of poker!”
The tension on the line increased exponentially, showing the erratic stirrings of a fish ready for its final stand. The reel moaned with every swift jerk from below, unspooling itself inch by inch until only a few yards remained before reaching the blood knot connecting it to the reserve line. “Come now, fish,” he shouted, “You are in good company! Let us meet eye to eye, brother to brother!” The line went out parallel to the water as the fish swam out towards the sun, which had fallen just above the horizon.
The salt air filled the young man’s lungs once again as he stood on deck watching his last sunset on the Atlantic. His sail was full and pushed him further out into the vast expanse than ever before, his past receding in the fading wake of the cargo ship as it neared the Panama Canal. He sat and wrote a long letter to an old friend until the crimson canvas of the sky faded subtly into the dark blue palette of night. The letter went out with the bulk mail on its way to Cuba just as his journey crossed over into warmer waters. After arriving on Maui a few weeks later, he spent nearly all his time aboard a local charter boat, re-training his hands to tie precision knots and learning from the rich local traditions. His captain, a stout and jovial Hawaiian man, had hired him on the spot; recognizing in the young man an invaluable reverence and understanding of the sea. The captain spoke in short, jab-like sentences, his voice soaring high above the roaring engines in a singsong tone. The first mate, a native of Moloka’I, protested that the young man’s presence was forbidden, or “kapu,” as the ocean and religion were all but synonymous in their culture. They worked in silence, except for the occasional sidelong glare from the native, which was quickly broken by the captain’s sharp tongue. The young man’s expertise and skill eventually earned him a mutual respect on board; creating a successful dynamic between men raised by the sea and respectful enough to behave in her presences.
Four months passed before, one afternoon, the captain surprised the young man with a small brown package addressed to; “Manolin – c/o the SS Leeard port of call – Lahaina.” The young man read the attached note and, before the captain could say a word, repaid the surprise by offering him a week’s pay for his old wooden skiff, which had been tied up and neglected at the end of the dock for months. The captain saw resolve in his eyes and, although not sure what to make of the overly generous offer, shook his hand firmly with a smile.
His past and present had converged like the tides to bring him to this moment; adrift in a small wooden boat under the same golden sky he remembered as a boy, indifferent to our measures of time and distance. He set his feet firmly against the bow and arched his back with a grunt, the rod digging into his ribcage causing every ounce of the great fish to resonate thought his whole body. They fought back and forth like two brothers with opposing goals, tethered together by a mere length of line. The water began to churn ahead, brief streaks of silver and blue glinting just under the surface as he struggled to close the distance between them. With his left hand gripped firmly on the mid-point of the rod, he leaned back in an attempt to pry the fish closer, coaxing him to jump from the water and fill the air sacs along his back, making it all but impossible to dive back down into the deep. He was now twenty yards away from the whirlpool ahead, when the water became suddenly still. With eyes wide in anticipation he watched the glassy surface for the breach, but instead felt the rod jerk violently downwards; the reel a blur as the spool of line went out once again. The boat dipped towards the starboard side and he stood straight up with one foot on the bench, shifting his weight towards his back leg for balance. Just as quickly as it had dipped, the boat recoiled suddenly and rocked to the port side, sending the young man through the air and landing on his back in the bed of the boat. All around him the water had become a sheet of golden glass, peaceful and serene. He looked towards his hands, cut and bloody against the rod, and notice the reserve line still coiled in the reel; the blood knot connecting the two lines frayed just at the end where it had given way.
|image © Gabriel Burchman|
I am writing on behalf of your intended recipient, Santiago. My name is Domingo and I own the small shack which my former tenant, and your old friend, resided at for many years. I regret to inform you that Santiago passed away some time ago. He had very few belongings, of which I have included in this package for you. Santiago was an isolated and quiet man, but when he did talk of a friend, it was your name he spoke. I run a small newspaper stand in town and remember you as a boy; running through the streets of Havana on your way to the docks, do you recall? It was your coffee that I looked forward to every morning, so rich and smooth! If only Santiago could see what distance your letter has traveled, it would surely make him smile, as only you could. Your youth kept him going for many years. I cannot speak on behalf of our friend, but if I could I would say this; continue to chase what it is you seek out there in the deep, but keep an eye on the horizon. A man makes his own path in life, each course leading towards a different ending to his story. May your journey be filled with memories far too abundant for the confines a small box, your story remembered as more than that of our friend; an old man, and the sea.
He placed the letter to the side and took the canister in his hands, removing the lid to reveal the dark, ashy powder inside. He studied it appraisingly, taking stock of all it contained; the memory of a man betrayed by a weight no greater than a handful of sand. He thought of his father, and how much he wished to hold something tangible of his in order to say goodbye in this way. But life is like water; we cannot control its currents, but instead must adjust our sails to navigate our way between storms. “I had hoped our friend could join us,” he said, looking out towards the horizon. “But I am rusty, my hands cannot tie the master knots they once could…the way you could.” He looked down towards the rod, its bloody handle surrounded by a nest of frayed line spilling from the reel. “You taught me much about life; to have faith on the lonely journey out to deep waters. I want you to know I have found my fish, and set my course accordingly. Tomorrow I will go inland, towards the coffee fields of this valley isle and set down roots.” He held the canister over the bow and emptied its contents overboard, creating a floating patch of ash contrasted against the shimmering water. “Go now and be with your brothers. Don’t worry old man, I will visit often. With enough luck I will bring with me that which I chase…she returns in 84 days.”
He watched the ash dissolve on the surface, on its way down into the deep. With a final nod, he started the motor and circled the boat around, aligning his bow with the faint outline of the island in the distance. Once again he lay sidelong on the bench, his head rested on the rolled up tarp, his eyes focused towards the faint glow of Lahaina visible just beyond the gentle swaying of the small plastic hula dancer on his bow. The surface grew still in his fading wake, except for a small patch of churning water where the ash had vanished towards the deep. The young man sat straight up, alarmed by a sound heard over the motor and turned back towards the horizon, just in time to see a splash of water reaching high up in the air. Something big had breached.
|original oil on gold leaf © Gabriel Burchman|
Images by Gabriel Burcham are original oils on gold leaf. For more info on this Maui based artist and his work visit http://www.gabrielburchman.com/php/bio.php