 |
| image © Gabriel Burchman |
He
was a young man adrift in a small boat twelve miles off the coast of Moloka’i. The
faint outline of Lanai shrunk in his wake as
the horizon came to life in the rays of the morning sun, burning a thin line of
yellow on the endless waters ahead. He
lay sidelong on the bench, resting his head on a rolled up tarp used in sudden
downpours. His eyes, which shone bright
green under his brow, were affixed on the distant peaks of a dormant volcano,
the Halekala, off his stern. He rested
one foot on the steering arm of a small outboard motor, keeping it perfectly
aligned on a narrow course navigated by no more than tendrils of light through
the peaks and the occasionally nudge of his heel.
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 |
The first order of business was to
pull up a line that been affixed to the starboard cleat and remove the small
tuna that had been kept fresh in the rushing water by a line looped in the
pointed mouth, out of its silver gills, and knotted off to form a tight
noose. With a few turns of his knife the
man carved three chunks of meat, two of which he placed to the side and the
largest of which was laced on the end of a crooked hook. He twirled the meat overhead like a lasso and
released it off the bow, sending the spool of heavy line into the air like a
bolt of heat lighting chasing across a stormy sky. The line consisted of two standard lengths spliced
together by a blood knot, a technique he had learned from the old man to
lengthen the reserve line. He plunged the
rod into a hollow pipe welded to the anchor mount,
leaving the rig towering overhead like the mast of a sailboat. Pleased, he sat back and reached for a small
tin can nestled deep in the engine. With
the tips of his fingers he quickly removed the can, which had been kept warm by
the heat of the carburetor, popped open the lid and smelled the rich aroma of
coffee. “Fish,” the man said aloud,
“today is a special day and I want so much for you to join me!” The man rarely spoke on the water, as silence
was a virtue while at sea; however out here alone he felt it almost rude not to
introduce his presence in some way to his fellow ocean travelers. The smell of the coffee reminded him of home
and he smiled as he drank in the warm glow of the morning.
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.
.png)
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 |
“Fish”, he pleaded, “now is not the time to
hesitate! Take the meat and be
full!” His eyes followed the taught line
down from the sky where, ever so subtly, it pulsated on the surface of the
water like an erratic heartbeat. He
closed his eyes and reached out to put two fingers on the line like a harp
player, using his body to resonate the vibrations from the deep and translate
them into a mental image. After a short
time he opened his eyes and let go of the line, sighing as he took a piece of
the tuna that he had carved and sliced it into thin strips, placing them in a
shallow bowl. “Ahhh, you must be very
full or very cleaver to resist something as tasty as fresh tuna!” He reached in a bag and pulled out a lime,
cut it in half, and squeezed it over the raw strips of fish, submerging them in
a mixture of citrus and saltwater. He
had found the local Hawaiians made a similar dish called “Pokē,” which
substituted sesame oil and soy sauce for the citrus, but he much preferred the
acidic bite from the lime. He felt the
sting of the juice as it soak into the small cuts of his palm and he brought
the hand to his mouth to taste the bittersweet memories as they dripped down
his forearm.
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 |
Suddenly, and without warning, the
line snapped tight causing the man to startle from his daydream and lean
instinctively towards the port side, counterbalancing the heavy strain pulling
from the deep. “Brother,” he yelled, “I thought you had
left me!” The reel screamed as he
steadied himself, reaching for the rod with legs set firm against the starboard
side. The line had continued to feed
from the eyeholes and he knew in his heart down below was a “grander”; a
monster marlin over 1000lbs found only out in deep waters. He grabbed the rod and arched his back,
bearing the strain on his muscles as he and the boat were pulled towards land,
as if by a stubborn dog on a leash.
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 |
They talked until the rain had
long-since stopped and all the drunks had spilled out into the night. He locked up and they walked arm in arm down
the back alley away from the crowd and lights of the strip. The sidewalk was dark and wet, and they
walked along it to the break wall at the edge of town, passing street lights
which poured an amber glow onto the black, wet brick of Mallory square. They walked out across the wet grass and onto
the stone break wall. He spread a
newspaper and they sat, looking back across the dark water of the marina where
they could see the faint outline of a great cruise liner. She had been at sea
for two months before arriving that morning on the cruise ship, where she
performed nightly as a hula dancer. The
wind was high up and took the clouds across the moon, causing the ship to loom
ominously in front of them like a mountain silhouetted against the amber
backdrop. He stared out at it for a long
time, imagining her on it, sailing away.
When he could no longer stand it, and tears began to gloss his vision,
he turned to her and was met with her lips.
She kissed him sweetly, and he put his hand to her soft, wet face. He sat with her there until her early morning
call to board the ship and then watched the boat slip away into the grey sky
morning.
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 |
He lay motionless looking up at the sky,
relaxing his body and mind. The cool
water relieved tense muscles in his back and shoulders and caused a mist of
steam to arise from skin like the smoldering remains of a fire. The sun had slipped beyond the horizon,
painting the day’s swan song against a gilded sky, and he sat up to take in the
serenity all around him. He took a deep
breath and exhaled loudly, turning his gaze to the small brown package tucked
away under the coil of rope used as the forward spring line. With a careful hand he opened the box
removing its contents; a small coffee canister, a framed picture of the sacred
heart of Jesus, another of the Virgin of Cobre, and a letter. He unfolded the
letter and read it slowly to himself, as he had done the day before.
Manolin,
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.
-Domingo
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
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. 
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. 
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. 
