The First Line Winter Challenge: Ships and Heartbreak

Many of my new year's goals of 2012 carried over into 2013, including my intent to write more. To keep myself motivated I try to write and submit entries to literary journals. This was my - albeit unsuccessful - submission to the winter edition of The First Line. I'm just proud I completed and submitted it!

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On a perfect spring morning with flat seas and clear blue skies, Captain Eli P. Cooke made a terrible mistake.  The captain could not believe his own misjudgment.  He stood at the bow of his ship “Constance” named after his wife and glared in the early morning sun.  The horizon sat unwaveringly in front of him as calm as glass.  Closing his eyes Eli took a deep breath, feeling it catch under his ribs.  He forced his eyes open and gripped the rough railing tightly, steeling himself for the day ahead.  As he turned and strode back to the captain’s quarters, he could not fathom how he would face it.

Constance Cooke stood at the kitchen sink looking out at the placid sea.  She hummed under her breath, thankful the weather would be pleasant for her husband’s sea voyage.  He was not going very far, just a several ports north, but she was a true sailor’s wife and she knew how inconvenient even the slightest change in weather could be.  Captain’s wife, she corrected herself smiling.  Eli had been sailing North at least every month, sometimes every fortnight but Constance did not worry.  He had been born a sailor and on the ocean was where he belonged.  She had her responsibilities to the home and hearth and the time apart would seem like an instant when he had returned to her.

James O’Connor awoke with a start and sprang out of bed.  Today was the day and he had many things to do in preparation. He shaved and dressed carefully, stopping only for a moment to glance admiringly at the clear sky outside his window.  He soon rushed into the gentle spring morning and headed toward the harbor.  

Captain Cooke did the rounds and insured all was running well on board the Constance before he settled himself behind the large oak desk in the Captain’s quarters. Maps and charts lay scattered across the aged boards, depicting the best paths through dangerous waters and the phases of the moon.  The Captain did not need to reference these charts; he knew it by heart.  He had grown up on the merchant ships of his father and uncles, and he had demonstrated a knack for all things sailing at a precocious age.  He had joined a company as soon as he turned 16.  He loved the boats, the ocean breeze, the comradery amongst the sailors.  He had made lifelong friends, many of whom now worked the rigging or cooked the meals on his own ship today.  He had also met Constance’s brother while on trading business down south eight years ago and not longer after had the chance to meet Constance.  They had married a few months later.

Eli thought of his wife.  He imagined what she would be doing in their seaside home this beautiful spring morning.  The house would be spotless already, and all the meals for the day in preparation.  Constance was an excellent homemaker and more importantly, a kind-hearted companion.  She understood the life of a sailor, a Captain, and uncomplainingly kept house and dedicated her abundant free time while Eli was at sea to a variety of good causes.  She had never once questioned his lifestyle.  She knew how much he loved the sea.

Constance walked toward town for her afternoon work at one of her organizations.  The other ladies teased her, somewhat enviously at her peace of mind and constant dedication to her sailor husband.  Many women were married to sailors in this town but most lived much more tumultuous lives because of it.  They complained over iced tea of the womanizing, gambling, and drunkenness their husbands insisted on partaking in, at home and even more troubling, in other ports.  It often seemed that all the men had picked up at least one less than savory habit while on ships, no doubt due to the need to pass the time at sea.  The women loved their men, but they struggled to achieve marital harmony like that of Constance and Eli.  Constance amusedly thought of this as she strolled in the sunshine.  She had been lucky and she knew it everyday.  As she passed the church she crossed herself, thanking the universe for her husband, her life, and the calm sea.

James O’Connor stood at the end of the old rock jetty his hand shielding his eyes in the growing sun of late morning.  He could not believe his luck; the weather, the day, the events that lay ahead.  He scoured the horizon once more for incoming ships before turning to climb back up the jetty and head into town.  It would be several more hours until the ship came in and in the meantime, James’ stomach demanded breakfast.

Captain Cooke masterfully directed the navigation toward the port, pleased to be ahead of scheduled despite the gnawing feeling in the pit of his gut.  He had travelled many seas in all types of weather, seen comrades drowned, nearby ships capsize, and still felt relief at guiding his ship and men to promised safety.  This time, it felt even more momentous.  Eli pushed his unbidden feelings aside and began the final docking preparations.    

Upon dry land again, Eli climbed the hill toward the small main street of the sea-side village.  He had been here many times before, and each time he was happy.  He looked around him nodding acknowledgement to other seaman as he moved down the street.  “Captain Cooke!” a man’s voice called suddenly and Eli turned.  James O’Connor stood six feet away, a wide smile on his face.  “Welcome home!” he jested as he shook Eli’s hand, and together they turned down a side street.

Constance walked home in the fading light of the early evening.  Her husband always sent word to her that he had safely made it to his destination and she expected to find a note when she returned home.  She had no reason to worry, but she appreciated his thoughtfulness.  He had not mentioned when he would return, but she knew he would let her know that too.  

James and Eli sat across from each other, each taking in the changes in the other.  It had been a few months since they had last seen each other, but the men had known each other for over three years.  They had met in this port, when James had worked on repairs on the Constance.  Eli had instantly liked the young man, and often stopped to have a beer with him when in port.  They chatted and drank for a few hours before emerging into the dusk.  

The sea lay at their feet as the two men sat on the jetty.  James put his hand over Eli’s.  “Will this be the time you stay?” He asked quietly.  Eli did not respond but when James leaned over to kiss him he did not resist, as he had tried to in the past.  “We have always been happy together” James choked out “and I only want to be happy all the time.”  Eli stared transfixed at the waves crashing against the rocks, ever constant of James’ hand in his.  He had spent three years torn between here and home and he had finally set his mind in one direction.  He had agonised for years and as he had looked over the ocean that morning, he knew he could only control the damage as best as he knew how, but he could not prevent it altogether.  James leaned toward him, awaiting a response, but Eli could only stare at his ship Constance bobbing gently in the harbor.

“Mrs. Eli P. Cooke” the envelope on the doorstep read in clear black ink.  Constance stooped to pick up and turning, cast one more look over the peaceful ocean.  She busied herself in the kitchen with the evening meal, and only after that was well on its way did she open her husband’s post.  The sun sunk beneath the horizon as she read:

“Constance,

You have been a good and faithful wife, but I have let you down.  I will not return from the north port presently and I cannot say if I will ever return.  Please know I am safe and I have always loved you, as as well as my heart knew how.  Forgive me.

With love,

Captain Eli P. Cooke”

1st Line Submission

I have been trying to get back into the habit of writing regularly (thus this blog) so I've started seeking out literary journals like The First Line . As the name suggests, the premise is that TFL publishes opening lines each season and invites entries that start with it. I submitted an entry for the winter 2012 issue and while my piece was not chosen, I am still pleased to have actually finished and submitted something! So here it is.

Next week: Part II of 2012: A Year in Review and then on to homemade Christmas presents (hopefully!)

Sometimes, when it's quiet, I can remember what my life was like before moving to Cedar Springs.  I find that it is often quiet here, neither to the improvement or detriment of daily life.  Cedar Springs is good at maintaining the careful balance between extremes; no day is too hot or too cold, no celebration too ostentatious or too petty, nothing too big or too small.  Life is as it should be in Cedar Springs.

Everything is pleasant without being over-stimulating; disappointments are gentle letdowns to be expected in modern life.

This has been my home for several weeks, months, years… I no longer keep careful measure.  I have found it peaceful for the most part and that is what they said I needed.

“Peace and quiet and time to rest” was the recommendation.  Cedar Springs was the ideal place.  In the quietest moments, I remember my life before; my ‘last life’.  All there is now is the undulating present of days like the ones that went before and tireless nights following after.

I am lucky.  Every day, I hear this.  Most times some person tells me; sometimes I swear the swaying tree branches or the glass-like river whispers it.  I am lucky, I know that.  I would know that without any reminder, but I have grown not to mind.  Cedar Springs is a place where people are always grateful in a dignified manner and expect others to behave in the same reserved way.  It is different than my last life, but I do not mind.

In the time I’ve been in Cedar Springs, I have walked every street in town.  I have been in all the shops and eaten in all the establishments, fine and otherwise.  I have read every book about Cedar Springs, set in Cedar Springs, written by Cedar Springs.  

Perhaps I will write a book I said suddenly one day, looking up.  “Yes of course you should” the faces around the room said.  ‘That would be nice.’ ‘That would be a great undertaking.’  ‘It could really take you places’ the last voice in the circle said.  I have already come here, I thought.  Where else was there to go?

The loudest voice in the room pierces my thoughts:
“Would your book be about before Cedar Springs or before?”

I looked at him, the first person I met in this town, the man I saw everyday.

“I can’t say until I start writing.”

The next day he handed me a blank notebook.
“I think we’ve gotten enough done today. Take the rest of the day off and go write. I’m excited to read your book.” he said, smiling.

I plunged through the double doors into the cold outside.  I could walk home from here, to the grocery store, the pharmacy; everything was close in Cedar Springs.  I had known it’s every avenue, street, and park within a few hours of moving here.  I think I know these streets better than I know myself.

I walked the long way home, stopping from time to time to jot down observations, poetic descriptions, dainty enough strings of words.  I wandered down streets I had seen a hundred times before and tried to look at them anew.  The sky stretched for miles overhead and the ground below yielded to its reach.  The sky in Cedar Springs was the same sky I had looked up to every other day of my life.  It was all the same.

Snow began to fall as if it had been planned.   The day had drawn to an end and the wind had grown colder, and so the snow fell.  I thought of the last time I walked in the drifting snow, before Cedar Springs and I could barely recall what had come before.