I’m just back from a family holiday on Mull, one of the islands that makes up Scotland’s Inner Hebrides. Yes, it was wonderful, thank you for asking. Yet another place you really should visit, given the chance. (Unless your main passion in life is really wide roads, in which case there’s nothing there for you. Please leave it for the rest of us!)
While there, we spotted a trio of broken ships hauled up onto the shore next to the road. Naturally, we had to investigate. On that note, what you’re about to read is completely made up. Obviously.
At high tide it remained my great pleasure to sit on the seaweed strewn rail and hang my toes in the water. A source of joy I expect I’ll cling to until the last plank crumbled under the water’s caress. Sea Shepherd is still my ship and I’m not ready to let go of her yet. That she no longer floats is of no consequence to me. You may look and see only a passive curator of flotsam. I don’t blame you for that, though I suspect you would not extend the same to me, were I to judge your elderly relatives in the same harsh light.
‘Ah,’ you claim, ‘but this is a ship, not a person.’
Landlubber. You would not think that way if you had stood on her bold decks as she topped the thundering waves. Anyone who sails knows a ship has a personality. In my book that makes her a person.
It’s low tide now. My feet can’t reach water from any part of the deck. That’s okay, though. I have nowhere else to be. I can wait.
Behind me the gravel crunches and my eyes clench, holding off the invasion of my space for a precious moment longer. It’s summer now which means low tide often brings my most hated plague: tourists. Most of them don’t realise their sin. To them it’s like a theme park attraction. They don’t realise the cost that has been paid. They see the rotting wood and swarm like maggots.
Right on queue. The stupid click-clack of digital camera noises. Even the photography is fake. I’d bet the photos won’t even be looked at.
Unseen near the prow, I kicked at a rock, recently exposed by the tide. It clacked against other pebbles. The photographer whipped around, surprise on his face. He hadn’t noticed me. Figures. I’m sure nothing outside his viewfinder is real to him.
I creep to the stern where there’s an exposed hatch. The rusted hinges creak delightfully as I flip it over.
The tourist is as white as a sheet. His camera drops from numb fingers to crunch in the sand. That’s when I jump out. A squeak escapes his clamped lips and he runs for his car. He trips, once, on some seaweed and scrambles on, half crawling for a few paces.
A smile spreads over my translucent lips as I hover over the water in the evening light. I lied earlier. My greatest pleasure is haunting tourists.
Brandon Lim 