Relfections

The wind howled, forcing its way through the gaps Alex wasn’t able to cover even with the numerous layers of clothing he had on. He stood on the bluffs he visited so often, facing an expanse of harsh sea so blinding in the sun he could no longer see its blue color. The waves drew curves of dotted white broken as they crashed over the rocks, and behind him stood green hills plastered against a stark blue sky. Off in the distance was Morro Rock — an immense mound of stone left over from some volcano eons ago, the landmark that had given the city of Morro Bay its name, the city where Alex had resided for decades. 

Alex thought back to the look on his father’s face when he made clear his dream of going to the sea. It makes good money, his friend from high school had said. It was a good decision for young men like them, he had said, young men who had no chance in college or an educated future. It was better to set aside the Wall Street dream for a life on the boats, where labor was in constant demand, and pay, though little and inconsistent, was nevertheless there. Better than staying at home and remaining with the family lumber business, Alex had told himself, before taking off to California without a second thought. Now his fishing boat, the artifact of his dreams, lay rusted and broken before him; just two years into their endeavor, the friend cut all ties with him and disappeared. For those years, Alex barely made a living, not enough to save his wife and pay for her cancer treatment, not enough to visit his father in Maine, to reconcile with him, to visit his funeral when he eventually died. Not enough to handle himself and create the life he had thought he could. 

About fifty feet away from the bluffs lay an old shipwreck — not one of those impressive galleons found in tales of pirates and seafaring chivalry, but a small trawler of insignificant size, with all the nets and hydraulic equipment removed — a rusting shell of what used to be Alex’s fishing boat, the Aria, written on the hull in faded gold letters. The boat that had drawn him to the glittering sea, away from the boundless woods of Maine, which were fresh in his memory. He still remembered the feel of the leaves under his boots, the dampness of the forest in the early hours of the morning, before the sun’s gaze peaked through, all things

he’d left for a dream on the ocean’s edge. Most dearly, he remembered the smell of the first rain, signalling the start of the wet season. 

One day, when he was around 9 years old, he and his father had gone on a campout in the woods behind their property. There had been no rain for weeks, and Alex remembered the state of the forest; bushes were dying all around them, there were no animals to be seen, birds chirped less, and the trees looked more brittle than usual. The forest had less life than Alex had thought possible at the time. But his father only laughed at his concern and said, “The rain is coming. I can feel it.” At the time, Alex thought his father was crazy. No one could predict the weather, and, as they lay camp in a small clearing, he tried his best to find signs of the rain on his own. But he sensed nothing. The sky was cloudless, the forest smelled just as dry and lifeless as it had been, and nothing seemed different from the days before — Alex couldn’t understand how his father could know, and he was too proud of a boy to ask. 

But like his father said, as they finished up their dinner that evening, clouds swarmed the sky seemingly out of nowhere, and the first drops began to fall. Little pitters and patters rang through the forest, whispers of the storm that was to come — Alex remembered his amazement as the two of them raced to cram equipment under their rain fly. Sitting in their canvas tent, gazing through the open flap into the forest, which, moments before, had been raging with heat. The rain was coming down in torrents then, and Alex had turned to his father in awe. 

With a kind smile, his father tapped Alex’s nose and said, “I can smell the rain. Take a deep breath through your nose. Remember this smell, right now, and whenever you catch even a whiff of it in the future, rain is on the way. Your grandfather taught it to me, and now I’m teaching it to you.” Alex had inhaled deeply, catching the clean smell of the forest rejuvenating in the rain, the herbal notes, the slightly damp and musty tones of wet wood and dirt, the minty sweetness of the air, and most deeply, he remembered the metallic earthiness of the rain itself. 

Remember the smell, his father had said. Looking down towards the shipwreck, Alex thought about that memory, one that had stayed with him for the near six decades he had spent away from home. His eyes caught a dark turquoise-blue scrap of fabric still clinging to

the bow of the ship — the flag his wife Judy had made for him and suggested he attach. She had already been diagnosed at that point, and, sitting in her rocking chair by the window in the kitchen, she had sewn and woven scraps of fabric together to create that flag. “I have nothing better to do with my time,” she had said. “It would look so good on the Aria. And it’s my favorite color.” She had given him a knowing smile then. “You’re always so against decorations of any kind.” And he had taken that flag and fastened it to the bow, where all could see it. The day he brought Judy down to the docks to see her handiwork, they had a picnic on the bluffs; he had felt happier than he ever had before. 

That day was also the last day Judy spent outside, for she was confined to bed from then on. Alex, his gaze still on that blue cloth, let out a small sigh. He’d lived in solitude for so long he’d forgotten how much he relied on her, how much his life had been made better by her presence. 

Did his father also feel this way? Perhaps, standing in that clearing one a certain day, an old man reliving the memories — happy ones, regretful ones, painful ones, exhilarating ones — he’d made with the son that left him behind? As a young man, with a head full of glory, Alex hadn’t realized that one day, those memories would be all his father had left, once his youth was gone. His father’s only mark on the world he’d lived in was Alex. His mother, who had reasoned with his father to let him go, did she regret her choices? Alex didn’t know. He didn’t know if he himself regretted his actions. On her deathbed, his wife had told him she didn’t blame him for anything, that nothing he did would change the outcome of their relationship. Alex wondered that if he had a better job, the treatment she would have received might’ve saved her life. 

Perhaps the flag was his wife’s way of telling him not to forget her. Perhaps his father teaching him to smell the rain was the same hidden plea. Breathing deeply, Alex caught a whiff of that metallic earthiness — and though the clouds were sparse, the sun was setting against a clean horizon, Alex turned heel and walked towards the path to his car. He had to take the cat in. There was rain coming.