The Vigil

Bad weather is a threat to fishermen and seamen. That's why costal
houses of old had "Widow walks" where wives of those at sea could pace
and wait for the fishermen and sailors "home from the sea."

Personally, I've never known too many professional fishermen and
sailors. The stories are great though, and range from Jonah to the
tales of Hemmingway.

During the fifties, I spent some time in France and became great
friends with Nicole, whose Father, Emile, would go out to sea in a 16
foot wooden boat with extremely high gunnels and a little motor that
went, pust-pust-pust as he put out to sea. Whatever fish Emile caught
were used to supplement the family protein intake, with the excess sold
for money to buy necessities. One trip with him was enough for me. I
grew fearful as we passed the Isel De Aix and went out of sight of
land. Other than my nausea, the trip was uneventful.

One Sunday morning Nicole and I accompanied her father to the ocean for
his "casting off." His duffel bag had the usual supplies, wine, bread,
cheese, and a small bottle of cognac to ward off the cold and wet when
the rain showers came up. Nicole and I stood hand-in-hand waving as
Emile in his blue denim coat topped with a black beret went
pust-pust-pusting off across the horizon in quest of the big one.

As the Sunday movie ended at the local theater, torrential rains,
thunder, lightning, and gale force winds rolled in off the Bay of
Biscay and pommeled La Pallice and La Rochelle. As darkness fell, there
was no let up in the storm. Emile hadn't returned. My command of French
failed as Nicole and her mother were near hystereia. The only thing we
could do was wait and pray.

As the storm finally subsided, Nicole and I went past the World War II
submarine bunkers and out to the rock jetties where we held each other
and a vigil. Suddenly a full moon arose as if it were coming out of the
eastern ocean. There was still no Emile.

It's difficult to be romantic when scared. Emotions somehow get mixed
up. We cuddled on the wet, hard rocks, probably out of fear, hopeful
we'd hear the pust-pust-pust of Emile's boat coming back toward us. The
night was one of revelation as we discussed our hopes and dreams. It's
easy to reveal and bare one's soul when scared. It's a special type of
intimacy, experienced only rarely. I hoped Nicole would include me in
her future plans, but knew she had strong feelings for Ernie, another
American.

As dawn approached, we fell asleep, hugging each other, with tears
staining our faces, and half said prayers on our tongues and minds. Our
light sleep and the lapping waves prevented us from hearing the dip and
pull of oars against the side of Emile's boat as he rowed back to the
beach, home, and safety.

The storm had blown and tossed Emile around a bit before passing
through and leaving great fishing in its wake. Fishing was so good that
Emile stayed much longer than usual. The prewar motor wouldn't crank,
making the oars necessary.

A fatigued but jubilant Emile chatted incessantly. His face beamed as
he showed the catch to us, his wife, and the many neighbors who came to
view and pay a few francs for fish for their dinners.

With several francs in his pocket and a wife that wouldn't stop
touching him, Emile went toward home. An hour was necessary for us to
transport all the the fish to the house, where we enjoyed a delicious
breakfast of bread, cheese, and salami. Emile opened his best bottle
wine of the occasion...a bountiful catch for him and the return of a
husband and father for Nicole and her mother.

As for me, it was great to be alive, 21 years old, in love, having wine
for breakfast, and knowing that prayers are answered.

p.s. Erni got the girl.