Chapter 6 — You Don’t Fight the Sea

The next time Molly was at her Grandad’s house, they fished the way they always had. The beach was empty, the waves formed and broke, and they baited their hooks just as they’d done so many times before.

Molly remembered the first time he’d brought her here, much smaller then, insisting on carrying her own rod and catching nearly every branch of every gum tree that lined the narrow track. When she’d finally managed to cast her line out past the break, they’d both clapped and danced. Then her Grandad had touched her shoulder gently.

“Now you’re ready to learn about waiting.”

He’d settled himself down in the sand and motioned Molly to join him.

“You don’t fight the sea,” Grandad had said. “You watch it. It’ll tell you what to do.”

That day they’d caught one fish.

“One fish?” Molly had asked.

“One’s plenty.”

Now, Molly noticed he had started moving a little slower. It wasn’t obvious at first. He still woke early and still walked down the track toward the beach each morning, but he’d pause before standing up. He rested his hands on the bench more heavily and for longer as he waited for the kettle to boil, and when he watched the sea, his lips would part then close, and part then close, before he got around to speaking.

One morning Molly came into the kitchen and found him sitting at the table instead of standing at the sink.

“You alright?” she asked.

“Yes, yes,” he said with a small smile. “Just taking my time.” His smile grew a little broader. “Certainly seems like time’s catching up with me.”

They walked down to the beach a bit later that morning and set their lines. When they’d settled into the sand, Molly nudged him.

“What about Nin?”

Grandad watched his line where it entered the water.

“Nin walked upstream for three days,” he said, “and the river got younger as she went. Narrower, quicker, louder, until it was just a thread of silver coming out of the rocks, high on the mountain. A spring. The beginning.

“She took out the feather. ’So this is where you start,’ she said.

“And the spring made the sound springs make, which is very like laughing. ’I don’t start anything,’ it said. ’I’m just where the mountain lets go of the rain.’

“Nin looked up. The clouds were coming in off the sea, grey and full, dragging their bellies on the peaks. ’Then where does the rain begin?’ she called.

“’Ask it yourself,’ said the spring. ’Here it comes.’

“And the rain came down cold on her face, and Nin stood in it with the feather held out like a question. She didn’t really expect an answer. She got one anyway, in the way of rain, which speaks by landing.”

Grandad paused. The waves formed and broke.

“What did it say?” said Molly.

“It said: I am the sea. This is just the long way home.”

Molly looked out at the water for a long time.

“So does she go back? Does the mapmaker ever draw the line?”

“Oh, he draws it,” said Grandad. “Coast, river mouth, the lot, right where the merchants wanted it. Nin was ropeable. She says, but it isn’t true. And he says: no line is. People need edges to find their way home. They just mustn’t believe in them.” He shrugged at the sea. “He drew it lightly, mind. Light enough you could see the paper underneath, going on without interruption.”

“So how does it end?”

Grandad reeled his line in a little.

“Next time.”

“You always say that.”

“Do I?” He smiled at the horizon. “Well. A story like this shouldn’t be rushed. You of all people know about hurry.”

They both stood watching the waves, Molly working her feet into the cool sand.

“You’re getting old, aren’t you Grandad?”

Molly’s Grandad looked at her and chuckled softly.

“It’s true,” he said. “To be honest, I’ve been doing it for quite a while.”

“Does it bother you?” Molly asked. Her Grandad stood for a while saying nothing.

“Not really,” he said. “Everything finishes somewhere.” A group of pelicans drifted past in a slow line across the water. One of them took flight and disappeared beyond the headland.

“When I was younger,” Grandad spoke slowly, “I thought life was something you had to figure out.”

“Isn’t it?” said Molly, scrunching up her nose.

“No, I think it’s more something you get to learn to notice.”

As they walked back up the track towards home, Grandad stopped and turned to Molly.

“You’ll keep coming down here, won’t you?” he said.

Molly looked up at him and nodded. He nodded back and they both smiled.

“Good,” he said.