Fisherman

He sits perfectly still, his arms by his side, back towards me and face to the sea erupting before him. An elderly man, well into his 80s if not his 90s, his white hair thickens a little, blows in the wind, waves to the sea. The rock he sits on makes for perfect photography. The alignment is beautiful, the juxtaposition, the themes. With words we write injustices. Capture an image like we would a wild animal. Raise, view, shutter, click, flash. Wind the black and white film.1

He was probably a fisherman, raised by the sea, lived with the sea. Maybe lived here his whole life; played here when he was a boy, but he is an old man, I cannot see him as anything else, only imagine. He maybe cast the nets, reeled in the fishes, withstood gales and the rain and the lightning. Celebrated the latest catch with glasses of whisky and rum and pints of bitter or stout. Maybe danced and sang and ate fish and potato pie with the cod and haddock caught from his last endeavour. He is almost a statue, watching so still and quietly what has been his life, as the waves break and wash forth around his feet, then rush back, where, from his perspective he is travelling backwards through the water.2

Meters down the shore lies the old docklands where coastguards, tourists and a maritime museum are the only occupiers. The ships that once stood proud have rusted and few of them still lie. Some just stare. Maybe out to sea, maybe at the people that walk them by. They are museum pieces. They are to be looked at. They are to have photos taken of them with families huddled and smiling in front. They never owned them. He might have, or at least in part until his industry died, like so many others. Went on the dole for months, possibly years at a time, then received a pension inadequate for him and his wife to live on; and now maybe a widower.3

The clouds begin to look grim above and the rain sets in upon the coast. This is where I retire, turning round to make for my hotel room. Before I leave I take one last look at the man. He sits perfectly still. I leave him to his vigil.4

The next morning begins with uncertainty. The oddest sight of an ambulance and two police cars retreating from the beach. I went into town with two purposes in mind. I developed my photographs at the one-hour photo shop. There was coffee and cake in between to pass the time. The prints turned out as I wished. The photograph captured the waves just as they broke in front of the dead centre figure and for various other artistic reasons it was a good photograph.5

The headline on the front page of the local afternoon paper caught my eye. My 30p purchase detailed how a man was discovered early this morning by a jogger on the beach who had started a conversation with him until noticing the man he was talking to was dead and had been so for two days according to early estimates. The paper also later revealed the man’s identity; a rich country gentleman who lived alone, never married and never worked a day in his life.6

I could have burned the photo. I could of hit myself. I could have done so many things to try to account for my inaccurate pretentious wonderings. Instead I returned home later in the day and went back to work on Monday after my weekend at the sea. I continued life much as usual, far inland and away from any large bodies of water. A copy of the photograph hangs above my bed. The original having been entered in a competition. The photograph titled: Fisherman.