THEN
Always take a knife.
If there’s one thing my father drilled into us, it was those four words.
Always take a knife.
Dad steps into his seaweed-green waders, pulling the black straps over his big shoulders. Heath and I stand silently on the wet sand, watching as he clips the straps in place.
He reaches into his fishing tackle box, rusted, bloodied, and caked with sand. He pulls out his knife. I hate it. The black handle, the black blade. The way it catches no light. I feel sick when I see it.
I turn away, staring at the crashing waves instead. It’s midnight and dark as hell. Even the moon only offers up a sliver of light, as if to say,You’re on your fucking own, kid.
Heath once told me that a single wave could travel for days just to crash on the shore. I used to wonder if the waves were angry about that. Traveling all that way, and for what? What did they see on their journey, and was it enough? Maybe that’s why they poured all their anger into it. That one glorious moment on the beach.
Boom.
As soon as we got to the beach, Dad insisted on shutting off the torches, the headlamps. Any scrap of light, gone.
“The fuckers can see it,” he said, nodding hatefully at the water.
He’s so paranoid of the ocean and everything in it. God knows why. He’s more carnivorous than everything in the sea.
I keep my eyes fixed on that sliver of moon as my father draws near. He crouches in front of us, eye level to Heath but towering over me.
“Look at me, Minnow.”
But I won’t.
The moon. The merciful slice of light.
And my father, the darkness.
He grabs the side of my face with a freezing hand, drags it back to look at him. Only him.
“What do I say?”
“Always take a knife,” I recite.
“Why?”
His breath is cold. His hand hurts me. My eyes fill and I can’t find my words. Heath’s eyes never leave me. He wants to step in, to shield me, but he knows it will make it worse. Instead, he stands there, every muscle tense, every breath shallow, watching and waiting for the moment things tip over the edge, when he can finally jump in and save me.
Dad releases my cheek, cuffs me with the back of his hand.
“Dad!” Heath steps forward, pleading.
It only angers him further. His curses fill the air, making it foul. My head is ringing.
“If you stumble, you’re dead. If water gets into your waders,” he growls, “they’ll fill up like bloody floaters. And you see that?”
He points the sharp black tip of his knife to the rolling sea.
“That ocean doesn’t give a shit if you drown in it. It doesn’t care that you love it. It’s ancient and restless and hungry.” He pauses, rubbing his thumb over the handle. “So hungry it hurts.”
He straightens up, thinking. He’s calmer now, some of the color returning to his ruddy face. That’s how quickly he changes. It’s jarring. It makes you watch him across the room for clues. Hypervigilance. That’s how it starts.
“All it cares about is that you’re right there in its mouth,” he says. “You’re not Heath or Minnow anymore then, you understand me? You’re just food for the fuckin’ sharks.”
