Windsurfing Nation

It was raining again. The water had begun to get icy cold and I suspected it would be freezing over soon, so I went in search of clams. I blindly stuck one foot into my harvest-yellow suit, repeated it with the other, then moved onto the exciting bit; the arms. I zipped it up with a giant rusty tab and reached for my helmet. Closing the antique metal window over my face and attaching the air hose to my tank, I went into the decompression chamber. I always took gasping breath as the water rose above my shoulders as I was still a land-walker at heart.

I took a slow, deliberate step outside once the hatch opened with a squeaky resistance.
“Morning, Mrs. Bonneur.” I said, waving, as she couldn’t hear me regardless. I could see her lips move in response and she waved back before bending back over to continue toiling away on her algae garden. “I’m afraid your plants might not survive the winter, Mrs. Bonneur. Lucy’s coral always wilted in the cold.” I said through a pensive demeanor, well-aware I was talking to myself.

I kept going at my painfully slow gate, not stopping to play fetch with Mr. Goodwill’s pet hermit crab. Arriving finally at Al’s oyster farm, I stepped inside his anti-chamber and swayed to the calming waiting music. When the port swung open, I walked in and greeted Al.
“What can I do for ya?” He asked, his rosy cheeks jiggling as he bounced on his soles.
“I thought I oughta stock up before the water freezes.”
“Leavin’ it a bit late, arntcha Jim?”
“I suppose.”
“How many will ya be needin’?”
“Oh, I dunno. Not too many, since it’s just me.”
“That’s right, that’s right…” He trailed off, touching his chin and staring at the ceiling of his shop for a moment, “Terrible business, that. She was a nice lady, she was. Gosh, I guess it’s almost been…”
“May as well give me 10 kilos, Al.”
“Good sir, good. We’ll get those delivered to you. How will you be paying?”
“Oh, let’s see… How about I give you a compliment every time I see you?”
“That would be most superb sir, superb. That old Miss Rothchild tried to pay me with those little pieces of paper last week, she did. Can you believe some people? Dunno what she thinks I’m going to do with those.”
I wasn’t listening. The words ‘terrible business’ knocked around in my head.
“Then Mr. York offered me a backrub just last week,” He continued. “of course I’m too kind to say no but I’d just as rather not receive it at all and get something more practical like a friendly phone call or-“
“What’s that on your head, Al?” I cut in, oblivious to what he was saying.
“Huh? Oh, what? This? This, Phil gave me this for a feed, he did, what’d he call it…A…”
“Santa hat?”
“Aye, that’s the one. I didn’t know you and Phil were close.”
“Thanks Al.”
“Oh, uh, thanks Tim. I’ll get one of the boys to drop those clams off tomorrow.”
I stood in the anti-chamber, gasping for my breath and thinking about Lucy and Christmas.

I riffled through the old boxes I kept in the back room until I found the picture. It was of Lucy and I, standing in our newly-purchased suits in front of our new house; an exact replica of our home in New Jersey, except with the appendix in front. We both looked young, our faces glowing; we were laughing at each other’s ridiculous Santa hats and enjoying our infinite mortality.

I cooked myself some left-over crab from the night before and went to the rift. Clutching my harpoon gun tightly in my gloved hand, I looked around nervously. The rift was usually off-limits for the townsfolk, but that had nothing to do with enforcement and everything to do with not getting killed. Massive bubbles rose from the cavernous fault line and great groans came from underneath. I didn’t stay.

I did my best to figure out what day it was. From what I could see from the rotations of the hazy sun in the crystallized air, it was the end of December, I guessed around the 23rd. An old almanac I had been using to level a sofa confirmed it. The next day I got prepared; I bought new harpoons, wrote a letter in the case that I did not return and traded Al his hat for a photo of a tree which flabbergasted him.

I dreamt vividly on Christmas Eve. Memories perforated my imagination. We stood before the rift, holding hands and admiring the schools of fish that swam by, their scales flowing red and green. “Merry Christmas” I breathed as morning broke, hoping she could read my lips. She smiled; of course she did. I slowly sunk to one knee and withdrew a small red velvet box. I opened it as an oyster would to reveal its pearl. Inside, enclosed in a tiny plastic bubble, was her mother’s wedding ring. She was instantly reduced to tears, threatening to drown herself inside her suit. Memories of our parents crashed upon us; scenes of pandemonium, scenes of necessary abandonment and destroyed families. She reached out to it, not believing it was real. She hugged me and wept. We stood there, on Christmas Day as snow fell onto the surface above us and a single tentacle rose behind her.

I awoke suddenly in a sweat. It was night outside, so I left. I arrived at the crevasse with harpoons and a propensity for revenge. The scene hit me there; the tentacle prying her from my arms, wrapping around her doll-like figure and crushing her soft frame. I ran at it, swiping and grabbing, connecting with the great beast’s eye, but it threw me off before sinking to the depths below with my beloved. I stood there; waiting, waiting for it to return as tears burned my face. I stayed until my oxygen was essentially gone and I had no choice but to leave. There I stood again, twenty uncelebrated Christmases later, wearing the ridiculous red hat. Just like that night, a tentacle rose from the black hell below.

The beast was enormous, its tentacles extended forever in every direction. Its eyes peered over the edge; one bore a scar through its retina, its milky white colouring suggested I had stolen his eyesight like he stole my betrothed. A moment’s calm fell over us as I stared into its massive dead eye that dwarfed me easily. I quickly reached for my gun as its infinite tentacles flew at me. I dove to my right and fired a bolt into his bulbous forehead. His many limbs thrashed furiously, breaking entire chunks of the shelf off into the abyss. I rolled about frantically, trying to avoid the fatal blows from his tree-sized appendages. The harpoon seemed to be of no serious consequence to him, as he soon discovered and furthered his attempts to abolish me. I soon became exhausted from his cat-and-mouse game, stopping for a quarter of a second to breathe deeply from my tank. One of his stray arms caught me by the tight. Delighted by its own success, he lifted me like a fisherman would display his best catch. I readied another harpoon as I swayed upside down and prayed for a true shot. I closed my eyes and squeezed the trigger. The business-end connected squarely with his working eye and I was released, falling slowly to the ground. The blinded beast retracted his satellites and withdrew to stumble about in the darkness. I rose slowly, testing for any injuries. I turned back to return home when I noticed something from the corner of my eye. I reached into the sand and picked up the plastic-encased ring. It was identical to the day I lost my one true love to the sea.
“Merry Christmas”