Rostam struggled to bait the hook; he noticed abstractly that his hand was still trembling slightly. He took a deep breath and tried again, feeding the cod down through the barb and finally succeeded. Straightening and casting the line into the water, he glanced up at the frigid sun. So bright, and so little warmth. He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel warm again. As the deck moved beneath him, lively for the first time in weeks, he found himself reflecting on his own teenage years.
It had not been easy to leave home at eighteen, but at least he’d had a home to leave. He distracted himself briefly, blinking away salt spray and snow-flakes, to instead focus on his line in the ocean. It trailed aft, swallowed up in the foamy seas, and there was no bite. Nothing at all to signify that these waters were any more alive than the ones he’d left.
The Greenest Dolphin surged, however; for the first time in ages, there was a pulse to the ship as it met the waves, propelled by a real wind. A real wind. The chilly air bit through his thawb, leaving him shivering in a way the frigid mists had not. As he tugged at the line, hoping for a bite, he thought of the battered little waveball in his backpack. It looked as though it had come from a garbage heap; the thought pained him. Just for a moment, he could hear the voice on the wind. “Eggy eggy eggy fart!”
It hadn’t been easy to admit that he was no longer the waveball player he used to be. But it had been a delight to see the boy’s ingenuous amusement when a ball whacked into Rostam’s groin. It had been a delight to see him carrying the new waveball everywhere, tucked under his arm.
Rostam glanced up at the cold blue skies, noting the way a cloud seemed to surge across the horizon, undiminished and as though it was racing The Greenest Dolphin through the water. He tugged fruitlessly at his fishing line. He forced himself to stare at the water, seeking any sign of life. Any sign of life.
It used to be easier to lose himself in this task. He was no great fisherman, but it used to be a meditative practice. His mind would empty, as empty as these seas. Now the same thoughts seemed to race around in circles, chasing one another as the clouds raced across the sky. Again and again, he could hear his own voice screaming into the storm. His throat still ached from where he’d screamed himself hoarse.
One minute, there had been a fog. The next, a wild maelstrom of wind and sea. He told himself he was grateful.