"Flying Fish" (Out of the Dark, 1955)
Oct. 16th, 2009 08:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
riptide_asylumTitle: Flying Fish
Rating: PG
Summary: From Cody's time aboard the Eventide.
Cody is six.
There is trouble with his beautiful, crazy older sister during the week, so every weekend is the same: Granddad comes up from San Diego to pick him up in the taxi and they take the boat out. It is the best thing Cody can think of, better than Superman and Batman combined. His mom puts some clothes in his suitcase--footie pajamas, too, because it's cold on the ocean--and Cody sits on the front steps with it, waiting for the yellow taxi to come.
As they ride, Granddad tells him stories of the week: fish caught, fish lost, pies Grandma made, places they will see this weekend and pirates they have to watch out for, and Cody sits transfixed, the plastic seat pebbling the backs of his chubby boy-legs.
Granddad holds his hand tight up the gangplank and Cody can't tell him how scared he is to look down at the water. He just walks fast, staring at the water-swollen wood, Granddad carrying his suitcase now, waiting for the reassuring rock of boat under his tiny Chuck's.
As soon as he is aboard, they go out to deep water, because Granddad says that's where all the smart fish live.
Cody wants to be a smart fish more than anything he can think of.
Grandma smells like sugar and salt, and Cody pretends to hate being hugged, just so he can hear, "Now son, don't you be moving in on my best gal now." But Granddad's eyes are kind and soft, so Cody knows they all laugh now.
He has his own chair on deck, smaller than Granddad's, but otherwise identical. He never sits in it.
Instead, he sits on Granddad's lap, watching the blue horizon sway gently over the Eventide's railing, smelling whiskey sours and fish, watching Granddad's wrinkled hands work the line, giving and taking, soft when they need to be, hard as steel when he has to land them a fish.
Granddad's rule about fish is this: this much, is fish for three people. Everything else, he holds up the fish, shakes its fin, congratulates it on a fierce battle and tosses it back over the side. Cody watches the fishes hover in mid-air, swooping low over the water before they disappear back into the magic world beneath the waves. This is what gentlemen do, Granddad says, and Cody nods, even though he's not sure what the words mean.
Every evening the three of them watch the sun set; Cody said once it looked like an orange about to fall in a bucket, and Granddad and Grandma both laughed like it was the best joke ever. He keeps their laughter with him, needing it sometimes during the week.
After the sun sets, Cody fights to keep his eyes open. Granddad tells him if he keeps watch he'll see the fish who fly, but Cody's always so tired when the sky turns pink and purple, he's always out before Granddad carries him belowdecks. He floats in Granddad's arms, like he thinks the fish must do.
These are the nights Cody sleeps all the way til the next morning, unafraid and unwoken by angry, biting voices. He makes his way up the smooth, dark, varnished steps carefully in the footie pajamas; he's already split his chin open once on them and then Roland told him no Granddad anymore...until Mom cried a lot.
But no matter how early he wakes up, his grandparents are already awake, drinking dark and terrible coffee from matching starfish mugs, but it doesn't matter. Every time he makes it to the top of the stairs they cheer him like it's a mountain and hold him tight, promising him everything in the world with every day.
Cody loves the weekends.
Some day though, some day he knows he'll meet one of those fish who fly. Granddad says, so he knows it must be true. Until then, Cody sleeps through the night, looking forwards to all the weekends still to come.
Rating: PG
Summary: From Cody's time aboard the Eventide.
Cody is six.
There is trouble with his beautiful, crazy older sister during the week, so every weekend is the same: Granddad comes up from San Diego to pick him up in the taxi and they take the boat out. It is the best thing Cody can think of, better than Superman and Batman combined. His mom puts some clothes in his suitcase--footie pajamas, too, because it's cold on the ocean--and Cody sits on the front steps with it, waiting for the yellow taxi to come.
As they ride, Granddad tells him stories of the week: fish caught, fish lost, pies Grandma made, places they will see this weekend and pirates they have to watch out for, and Cody sits transfixed, the plastic seat pebbling the backs of his chubby boy-legs.
Granddad holds his hand tight up the gangplank and Cody can't tell him how scared he is to look down at the water. He just walks fast, staring at the water-swollen wood, Granddad carrying his suitcase now, waiting for the reassuring rock of boat under his tiny Chuck's.
As soon as he is aboard, they go out to deep water, because Granddad says that's where all the smart fish live.
Cody wants to be a smart fish more than anything he can think of.
Grandma smells like sugar and salt, and Cody pretends to hate being hugged, just so he can hear, "Now son, don't you be moving in on my best gal now." But Granddad's eyes are kind and soft, so Cody knows they all laugh now.
He has his own chair on deck, smaller than Granddad's, but otherwise identical. He never sits in it.
Instead, he sits on Granddad's lap, watching the blue horizon sway gently over the Eventide's railing, smelling whiskey sours and fish, watching Granddad's wrinkled hands work the line, giving and taking, soft when they need to be, hard as steel when he has to land them a fish.
Granddad's rule about fish is this: this much, is fish for three people. Everything else, he holds up the fish, shakes its fin, congratulates it on a fierce battle and tosses it back over the side. Cody watches the fishes hover in mid-air, swooping low over the water before they disappear back into the magic world beneath the waves. This is what gentlemen do, Granddad says, and Cody nods, even though he's not sure what the words mean.
Every evening the three of them watch the sun set; Cody said once it looked like an orange about to fall in a bucket, and Granddad and Grandma both laughed like it was the best joke ever. He keeps their laughter with him, needing it sometimes during the week.
After the sun sets, Cody fights to keep his eyes open. Granddad tells him if he keeps watch he'll see the fish who fly, but Cody's always so tired when the sky turns pink and purple, he's always out before Granddad carries him belowdecks. He floats in Granddad's arms, like he thinks the fish must do.
These are the nights Cody sleeps all the way til the next morning, unafraid and unwoken by angry, biting voices. He makes his way up the smooth, dark, varnished steps carefully in the footie pajamas; he's already split his chin open once on them and then Roland told him no Granddad anymore...until Mom cried a lot.
But no matter how early he wakes up, his grandparents are already awake, drinking dark and terrible coffee from matching starfish mugs, but it doesn't matter. Every time he makes it to the top of the stairs they cheer him like it's a mountain and hold him tight, promising him everything in the world with every day.
Cody loves the weekends.
Some day though, some day he knows he'll meet one of those fish who fly. Granddad says, so he knows it must be true. Until then, Cody sleeps through the night, looking forwards to all the weekends still to come.
