Anchorman

Today it is his turn to dive.

Loaded with netting, a threadbare hull scarred by sun, deeply worn by wind and wave, the canoe is nightmare fuel for one who does not understand or respect the ocean.

But clearly, these men do. Oars in hand, synchronous, attuned. A six-person canoe that, for now, holds seven. They push off, move past the break, and swing the bow parallel to the shore.

The journey for him will be quick. He perches on the stern, sturdy, twine coiled and ready around his shoulder.

He’s the only one without an oar, and seemingly the only one without purpose. A stowaway, tagging along for the ride with a steadfast grip on the line that only hints of what’s to come.

When they reach the perfect spot, he must swim.

Now they have. And now he is the one who coils.

There is little fanfare to his departure. A curt nod from a shipmate and he is below the waves.

Alone.

But essential.

He knows these waters well, grew up learning to swim, watching the fishing boats. He peeks above the waves to see his crew leaving him behind.

They make for open water, tripling the intensity of their stroke. They are oblivious to him, he is an afterthought.

But their indifference signals trust. They have faith that he’ll do what is needed. And it is clear, so does he.

He swims a steady, confident path into the uproar of wave. Yet unable to touch, he pauses. Another look back towards his mates, perhaps with longing.

He is the one left behind.

The once-tightly wound line is now a snake trailing. The boat a distant beetle, wriggling six legs in perfected, rhythmic cadence. Snake chases beetle, agonizingly close, always in pursuit, never a satisfying taste.

He persists.

If his grip on the line is lost, so too is the day’s work for his crew, his family, his village. And also, their trust.

He knows the stakes.

With one last powerful push he crests a wave and welcomes the sand between his toes. He steps confidently toward the shore and again turns his gaze to the distant vessel.

They too have reached their destination. A crew, acting not as six, but one, offload the netting over the sides of a craft now drifting. Beetle has tired of the chase, and snake, it seems, has too, straightening to warm itself in the blistering sun.

He steadies himself on the beach, digging his heels into the sand. His well-worn hands steady the now-suspended line as his grip, his stance, and his resolve kick in.

Now the real work begins.