Stories from the sea: 1/3.
The days were bleak, watered down, washing ashore like the plastic the waves now vomited. The men and the boats of ebony-build sit useless like sunken driftwood that now litters the shore. The men and the boats with blessed names, Yakob, Geevarghese, Mary Matha. The men and boats who are equals, friends. Men who spend their days without braving the sea, dragging coconut leaves above leaking roofs, mending and patching the blue sheer nets of their craft. The nets, a labour of love. The nets, limbs that embrace their mother.
The days were marked in colour, and these particular ones in the colours of rain, a mardy, ugly grey. When it rains, the dirty white sea resembles the rippling underbelly of a dead whale. Seraphin the boat and Victor, its human stand tall next to each other, watching the black stormy waves consume the ochre of shores inch by inch. The idle boat stands a contrast amidst the blue-greys of the sky and the sea, 'Serafin' painted in large, shiny red words across it's wooden length of yellow and fuchsia. Victor stands there and remembers the sea in vivid colours. On some days , the sky was a blush-pink, which meant a thronging population of mackerel, a gift from the kind kadalamma. Golden skies brought with them silver bellied haul. On days that the summer sun shone, her body was a joyous, electric blue, revealing all the bounty that she would bequeath unto them. Yet on days like this, mother sea was unyielding, nothing but waves of steel and cement, churning out dead salt and doom.
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