Visions of rolling waves. He’s shifting up and down, left and right. A large wave is coming port side. It strikes the hull and he begins to fall.
“Charlie. Son. Wake up now. It’s time to go.”
His father stands over him and pulls his hands back to his side. He points to the clock.
4am.
He’s wearing a light, blue poncho with tee shirt underneath and leather sandals. He carries a thermos in one hand— coffee, Charlie knows — and in the other is a pail with their lunches. Two fish sandwiches.
Charlie could already hear the wet flop of fish on deck. He felt a tinge of nausea that made his body tighten, spurned by a smell that could only come after fish had basked in the sun. It was accompanied by the familiar rise and fall of the bow, and the kind of tired ache that only comes after a long day of work at sea.
He rises from bed and dresses quickly, matching his father’s attire. Light green poncho. Capris. Leather sandals. He inherited the clothing from his father. Although they are the same height now, it all seems too big for him. The shoulders a bit too wide. The waist a bit too loose. Charlie’s not sure it will ever fit.
He shivers when they step outside. It’s drizzling now, but by sunrise the sky will clear. He looks to his Dad. His Dad looks to the ocean.
Pop is listening to the waves and the birds. He breathes in the air. He scans the horizon and gauges the direction of the wind, the potential for storm, the direction and strength of the current. It’s second nature for him to determine where to go and when in order to gather the biggest haul.
Its moments like these, just before the day begins and just afterward, that Charlie finds peace in the work. Nausea and all.