The Fish
The fish looked up at him with the eye that faced the shore. The eye that faced out to sea came in and out of view with the waves. He looked back at the fish with both of his eyes, concerned. The fish, or was it some sort of whale, sat at the edge of the surf, the tide rocking its great mass ever so slightly. Its belly was wallowed into the wet sand, and he thought it must be beached. Certainly the fish – or whale – could not swim away freely in this shallow water. It seemed to him that the fish was aware of his concern. The eye that faced him seemed to have an understanding of his sympathies. The eye – for all its fishiness – had an almost human quality to it. Not the glazed, unseeing vacancy of the fish in icy rows behind the glass at the mongers in town. No, of course not, because this beast was alive. It was more than that though. This eye was not just seeing him standing there, with its natural instincts of fear and alarm. This eye looked at him with understanding; it looked for interaction. This realization compelled him to say something to the fish. It wasn’t logical, but he knew that he should. More clearly, he thought, he knew the fish would understand.
He preferred the beach in the off-season. The greys and deep greens and bruised blues of the fall and winter months struck a tone deep within him. He didn’t mind the cool, the cold – in fact, he enjoyed it. It smelled of salt and clarity. He liked it when the sea and sky were the same steely grey. The waves were like moving walls, their dense green shattering to snowy white on the shining sand. He had come to the ocean because he did his best thinking there. At this time of year, especially, it was peaceful and unpopulated. Except this time there was an unexpected fish. Or maybe a whale, he thought once again, and this thought became his first question. He didn’t ask it in the way that you might speak to an animal in distress – knowing it won’t understand the context of your sounds, but hoping it will intuit your tones of comfort and benign intent. He asked his question seriously, and knew there would be an answer.
“What does it matter?” the fish answered. “You have the ability to help me, does it make a difference what I am?” He thought about what the fish had asked him and decided that it did not.
“How can I help you?” he responded, looking into the all too human eye.
The great fish seemed to think this was obvious. “I wandered too close to the shore and the tide left me. If you could help to dislodge me, or at least keep me wet until the tide returns to free me, I would be very indebted to you. Fortunately the day is cold and the sun is trapped behind the silver sky, or I don’t think I would have lasted as long as I have.”
He looked at the fish, wondering. “What made you venture so close to shore? Didn’t you realize you could be trapped?”
“That’s neither here nor there” proffered the fish, patiently. “The issue here is that I need to be freed of this sandy entrapment before the sun muscles its way out again. It always does, sooner or later. You look strong enough to assist me in getting into the deeper water.”
The fish then made a suggestion that was not expected. If he helped the fish get free of the shallows before it was too late – the fish said – the fish would tell him the secret of the ocean. He mused on this. The ocean obviously had many secrets, he thought, as he let his mind drift to the great hidden depths. He lingered there, imagining the unseen places and creatures below the mosaic of crests and troughs. This fish – or whale – for example; he did not recall ever seeing the like of it before. Who knew what else swam the great seas. As he thought these thoughts, he knew that he would indeed help this talking fish. Not for any reward, but because something had placed him here, in this odd situation, and he was able to help. That, and it was the right thing to do. He wondered though – did he have the strength the fish seemed to think he had?
He approached the fish and tentatively reached out towards its great, shore-facing side. He hesitated, and then placed his hands on the fish’s pale green skin. It was somehow both firmer and softer than he’d expected, and up close he saw for the first time the pattern of glistening scales, and felt them give under the weight of his touch.
At first he thought he would be unable to budge the fish, but as a small wave broke and then slid back into the sea, the great beast eased out slightly with it. He waited for the next wave to come, and as it left he pushed again. The fish did not move this time however. He turned toward the shore and leaned his back against the wet scales, and when the next wave came and went, he strained to help the fish follow. The great bulk moved a bit more this time, and he repositioned himself – his wet shirt clinging to his back – and prepared for his next chance. His legs pistoned and he felt a sudden release, and the fish slid out with the wave. It was definitely floating now, and the massive body struggled to turn away from the imprisoning shore. Its large tail broke the surface and swung past him, ruddering the water and moving the fish forward with a muscular thrust.
“Wait” he shouted, “you told me you’d…” A wave filled his mouth and knocked him off balance. “You said you’d tell me the ocean’s secret!” He could feel the fish pulling away – not just physically, but in their connection, which seemed to become thinner and more tenuous.
The creature drifted in the deeper water and turned slowly towards him. “The ocean is not what it seems. The great seas are made from all of life’s tears. Those from joy, and those also from grief and sadness. They churn and charge in an endless pull and release. Their waves pound like the beating of countless hearts. The ocean ceaselessly flows, as do tears, endless and unyielding. Every tear the world sheds, every brimming of laughter or sob of sorrow, feeds the seas. In turn, the seas feed the souls who walk the earth. The oceans take, but they give back in kind, and they hold and protect what is too vast to be contained elsewhere. The sea has the ability to draw from you the deepest wells and tightest knots. The sea knows you, for it is part of you. When the surf pulls at your feet, burying them in sand, you know this. That feeling, at once comforting and unfamiliar, is the knife’s edge on which we all exist. You come to the sea because you know that, and the fact that you know it scares you. You come in the windy winter and the brooding autumn because it is then that you hear the whispering. It is then that you are able to separate that sound from the others that hum around you. The whispering offers clarity – knowing – but also punctures your resistance so that fear seeps in. Both exhilarated and terrified, you at that moment know the secrets. I am not revealing them to you, you are allowing yourself to realize that you already hold them in your hand.”
The fish continued, “The urge to pull your feet out of the shining wet sand, back from the undertow drawing you out, is strong and reflexive. There will come a time though, when your feet will stay planted, the quicksand will grow deeper, and the hold on you will not relent. Walk away now, for you know you still can, and leave me to depart. It was lucky that you were here today, but it was not by chance.”
And with that, the fish – who had been drifting ever farther out into deeper water – rolled forward and slipped beneath the waves.
He waited for another glimpse of the fish, but none came.
Erick Wilund is a writer, born and raised in New York. He writes in order to process what he is presented with, and to organize what he stores in his mind’s attic. He currently lives in the outer boroughs of New York City, amongst the trees.
