Young Writers Society

Author's note: This short story was based on Sea Fever by John Masefield for the Poetry-Inspired Contest.

2,998 words

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The sea had stolen my soul when I was just a child, leading me away from my family's spot at the beach with her gentle waves, lulling me out to the far place where certain death awaited my chubby little body. The damp sand spilled out of my hands as I tried to reach for the curl of a wave, but two arms swept me up and brought me back to the dry land before disaster struck us. My mom struck me across the face, telling me to not be so foolish. "Do you want to end up like your father? Get away from there. Stay with me." Her stormy eyes looked down at me with just stark disapproval. My face was red and I burst into loud tears.

We didn't go back for another year.

Little girls were supposed to love playing with their cats, putting on makeup, and playing dress up in mommy's old shoes. Little girls were supposed to tie their hair up into restricting buns and visit dance lessons with their older sisters, making sure they knew what a pirouette was and testing if they could leap with a straight leg. Little girls with all of that on their plates were not supposed to be interested the sea. Little girls definitely didn’t want to be pirates.

At art lessons, I would paint the curl of the waves with my paintbrush. My five-year-old hands could barely hold a paint brush but I remained transfixed on the large arch and the frothy bubbles I managed to create. The sun didn’t exist and clouds could wait to be outlined later, because the sky could be a lonely for that time. Mixing together the right blues and greens for the swirls was the most important part in my mind. It was plain and simple but my art teacher encouraged me, asking if I had ever been to the sea before.

‘Did you like it there, Lola?’ Her hand on my shoulder as she pointed out the strokes I’d have to smooth over with a darker blue to fit in. ‘I mean, I’ve never been to the sea before but I’m sure it’s lovely.’

I swallowed back all of my longing and gave a sure nod, as I hastily added a few swishes of green and hoped they’d mesh well with the still wet blue. ‘I think I do like it.’ My mom’s harsh strike had been fresh in my mind, even though that was two years behind me. ‘It’s calming. But there are pirates and I think next time I’m gonna paint a ship, with a wheel and everything.’ I wanted to ask her how to draw the gray mist I had seen in videos and other paintings of the sea, but my words faltered in my throat.

She gave a loud laugh, like I was too ambitious for my own good. Her hand tousled my short hair and then she said, ‘Well, sweetie, you’re doing a great job. You just need a sun and some clouds, ‘cause your sky is looking a bit empty there.’ And then went to go talk to another student who had been painting a rather creepy cat, giving other bits of advice that didn’t fit with our own styles.

For our annual trip that year, Mom took us to the Museum of Art where my sister flourished amongst all of her people and I slowly dwindled. Instead of spending a week at the beach in the sands, we stayed in our aunt’s apartment and checked out a new section of art each day until my sister dragged my reluctant body back to the car. Within days, I was a walking zombie on my feet ready to throw a tantrum at any moment.

‘I don’t wanna be here,’ I proclaimed, yanking down on Bethany’s purse as she raved with Mom over her favorite sculptor. ‘I gotta go back.’ Stomping my foot on the ground, hoping for some sort of reaction to the tears threatening to burst out. My mouth quivered and I stared up at the both of them, waiting for a response to my behavior. ‘I gotta go back, Bethany.’ I yanked at her purse again, trying to make her realize my needs were important too. She was strong and the bag didn’t drop like it normally did.

I was getting ready to stomp again, my loudest scream at the top of my lungs, waiting for the whole museum to hear my struggles. The only thing I could do, though, was to fight against my mom’s tight grasp around my belly as she lifted me up and waited for my small fit to be over. Fighting against her grasp for as long I could, I kicked away from the statues and tried to reach out to my sister for an ounce of help. But she only looked at me with disappointment etched all over her face, crossing her arms and tutting at my reaction.

‘Shut your goddamn mouth.’

And so I did.

-

For my ninth birthday, my mother's mood swayed back and forth throughout the festivities. Over my breakfast of French toast, she could hardly contain her excitement at the idea that I’d finally have a normal hobby. She wanted me away from the sea and its deadly calling. Her fingers kept on drumming on the counter as she waited for me to daintily finish eating the last of the perfectly cut squares. Everything had to vanish from my plate or else I was wasteful.

My fork dropped from my hands onto the plate and it clattered.

She shot me a dark look while taking my hand to lead me outside, like I wouldn’t have been able to do it otherwise. Instead, I kept my hands at my sides and tucked my head down. If Mom had a bad reaction to my behavior, I wouldn’t have been able to have seen it.

She probably did. She always did.

Her hands pushed me out the door, trying to get me outside faster. Her teeth were gritted and bad words were said about me in only a way I could hear.

"You're a little prissy brat, aren't you? Too good for your mother?"

With her stance grounded, she gave me one final push out of the door and I stumbled down the steps. Tears pricked at the corner of my eyes and I wanted to cry, but instead I saw my one friend from dance lessons who had even bothered to show up. She stood under the pink banner that said ‘Happy Birthday Lola!’ and kept on looking shiftily at the pink wrapped blob a few feet away from her.

I ran over to her, sidestepping the big blob of wrapping paper, acutely aware of the fact I was wearing a pink skirt instead of my normal cargo pants that were folded on the edge of my bed. The things I gave up for my mom. But that didn’t matter, since I hugged Abigail really tightly. She was dressed in something different from leggings and a leotard, which meant she smelled like firewood instead of hair spray. Her hair was still tight in a bun, but some things would never change. Just like how she ran her hands through my hair.

“You cut it again, didn’t you?” She said in my ear, knowing my sister and mother would freak out if they actually knew. While they probably did — since guilt nagged at my conscience every time they studied my hair — it was nice to know Abigail would have had my back no matter what.

I gave a swift nod and then titled my head in the direction of my mother, who still eagerly watched my reactions from the porch. “Mmhmm, I did.” Then I raised my voice and hugged her back a little harder this time, glad I wouldn’t be alone on my birthday. “Abigail! It’s so good to see you!”

On cue, she let go of me and looked at me up and down with a determined expression to get this right. “Lola! It’s so good to see you too! I brought some of my favorite action figures to play! Uh, I have Spider-Man and Tony Stark and Captain America. They’re all having tea before they have a fight over who gets to pay Peter’s loans.” She purposely glanced at the mini table she had set up for her action figures to have their little get-together around. There was a tablecloth set up and Spider-Man looked like he was doing the splits on two chairs.

My hands twisted behind my back, starting to get all sweaty. Mom’s eyes felt like lasers on the back of my neck and I wanted to readjust the tag on the pink shirt she’d bought me. “Whaddabout Barbie? What’s she doing?”

“Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “Barbie is fighting a war down by the beach. Uh, uh, she’s currently looking for her clone who got kidnapped by a Build-A-Bear.”

I nodded. “Very serious business.”

She nodded back. Her eyes tried to meet mine but kept on trailing back to where my mother was still staring at us by the porch, still trying to analyze my reactions like little kids were animals in a zoo or rats in a lab. To be tested, prodded, and poked at until the result was excellent. She did that with Bethany.

“What do you want to do for your birthday?” Her hand lingered on my shoulder and I blushed again, trying to find the proper responses for everything.

The air was sticky on my skin and my face was hot, words couldn’t form right in my mouth but I felt an extreme sense of longing for something that was placeable but unreachable. Two things, actually. If I really thought hard about it, as I let the atmosphere get thicker and thicker on my skin and the more I wanted to rip my skirt off and run back inside and cry on my pillow. “I wanna go down to the sea, Abigail.” My voice was lower again. “I want things to be different.”

She hugged me again. “I know.”

My mom finally decided to swoop in like the hawk she was, breaking up the hug like she was afraid Abigail and I would fuse together and never separate. “Come on, Lola! Abby, thanks so much for joining us! I think it’s going to rain soon, dears, so,” she laughed nervously while I flinched at my name.

Abigail kicked at the gravel and muttered, "It's Abigail, Mrs. Parkson."

Mom ignored her, “How’s about we unwrap Lola’s present and then head inside for some cake?”

We both nodded and I finally looked at the big present I had purposely tried to ignore. It was clearly a bike and knowing my mom, it would be a very large pink bike with a large ribbon on the front of it. She didn’t know me, however, because I had asked for a miniature pirate ship, a mason jar full of sand, or a pirate’s hat.

But I put a smile on my face and pretended it was what I wanted, tearing off the paper and uncovering the ungodliness that was the bike. It was sparkly, a horrifying color of pink; it had princesses on it with half-warped faces to meet the bending of the metal frame and streamers were half ripped off, some of them falling off the bike. Those were Mom’s efforts in trying to turn me away from my true calling, but it wouldn’t work.

It started to rain on my face and I only looked up at the clouds, waiting for the wind to flap and then the sea to overtake my whole city. To wash everything away and start everything new, where my only gift wasn’t an unwanted bike from ideals that my mom wanted to force. My mind had been stolen from her at a young age and there was no way I was going back.

-

“Uh, Jack?”

“Nah.”

“How about Craig?”

“Sounds like an old guy’s name.”

“Kyle?”

“Mmm, no. That’s the name of my dad. He’s dead now.”

“Oh. Uh, sorry. Peter?”

“Maybe. How do you like the name Noah and everything?”

“I’d be totally fine with calling you that.” Abigail giggled and reached out to wipe off the frosting from my nose, smearing it across my face instead of helping with the situation. I stuck my tongue out at her and giggled back, stealing her plate of cake from her and holding it high above her head.

“Not fair!”

I smirked down at her, as she tried to climb up my body to reach her food. Her bun was falling out, almost. It managed to hang onto her head with only the sheer force of determination and hairspray.

“What about first name Noah and have my middle name be Peter?”

She stopped reaching for her paper plate for a few moments, sticking out her tongue in deep thought. Then she unexpectedly reached up, knocked the cake out of my hands, and dove for it on the bedspread. At that point, I wouldn’t have touched it but she ended up scooping it off and licking the rest of the frosting off of her sticky fingers. “I’d be fine with that too. Ms. Meyers said you can be anything you aim to be and do anything you want to do.”

I nodded along with her, happy Ms. Meyers would probably agree with my decision too. “I gotta throw out all my dresses now and everything, to make it official. That’s how it works, right? Also, you need to go wash your hands.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s right! Uh, I don't wanna wash my hands though.”

“It’s my birthday. Go wash your hands.”

“Fiiine.”

“Love you, Abigail.”

“Love you too, Noah.” And then she flashed me a smirk, wiped her hands on my bedsheets and raced down the hallway toward the bathroom.

-

“Abigail? It’s me, Noah.” My mother and Bethany were asleep, both of them passed out from Bethany’s party earlier that day. Red Bull and adrenaline were the only things pumping through my veins at that point, as I slipped my binder over my head and thought out the proper words to say to my best friend. “Listen, I’m taking that old bike I got  about six years back and then I’m heading out to the sea. It’s about three hours out. If you get this, call me back. I want you to go with me. Okay, love you. Please get this. Bye.”

My hand lingered over the hangup button, waiting for her to call back before I could have even sent that. But she was probably tired; getting back from a rally and daily dance lessons would do that to a person.

I wanted to hear her laugh as we sailed out over the seas and I wanted to look up at the sky with at her at the beach as we counted out the stars. The sea spray in our faces, the sand in our shoes, the seaweed draped in her hair. I wanted her to go with me, but if she didn’t, I’d go alone. And I did, wobbling on my bike as I went up the hills and down the hills and past cars that honked at me.

My phone buzzed with calls and texts from my friend, but I didn’t care to risk my life on the road to answer it.

So I continued to ride my bike along the roads, with the cool night air in my face and only the lights from other cars to guide me. Plus Google Maps, which yelled at me every five minutes to inform me it was recalculating. But I didn’t care much, because my tears felt frozen on my face.

It’d been years since I’d gone to the sea. It’d been years since my mom thought it’d be good to face her fears with her last bit of family dying by the twisting of the waves. Because my father had been a sailor once — not like the pirate ships I’d glorified in my youth, but he’d go out on cruises and rake in the cash — my sister could remember. I could only remember my mom’s fearful reaction when I’d gotten too close and had been almost swallowed whole.

But dammit, the sea was calling.

And as the sun rose in the east, as my phone buzzed and I finally made it there with hurting hands and sore legs. But I’d made it, the sense of longing in my chest being lifted.

My mother never got to bury my father, lost at sea.

Checking my phone's notifications, almost half of them were from my mother who actually seemed to care for my mental health in those few hours where I wouldn't answer. Long strings of messages asking if I was okay, long messages of apologizing, long messages asking for me to come home, that she didn't know where I was and she didn't want me to leave her.

Abigail only asked if it was too late for her to get her dad and drive up to the beach. She was going to do it anyway. She'd have to wait for dawn. She needed to go to sleep. She wanted to know that I was okay and she would seriously injure me if I scared her again.

She was still the same old Abigail.

With the world as my oyster, I parked my bike and the force of sleep hit me like a ship. Yet I persisted, with my heavy eyelids unable to guide me. I slipped off my shoes and let my bare feet feel the sand for the first time in years. I avoided the broken bottles, walking toward the ocean and instead imagining -- like toddler me had -- my father's pirate ship on the horizon. 

The water was suddenly up to my knees. The slimy seaweed wrapped around my legs, holding me tight. The pull of the ocean was harsher now. If I wanted to believe, then my father was there wading towards me. He was back. He was welcoming his son with open arms.

I was content.