‘After that, I made a rule – no fishing with family or friends – it was too much, I’d already lost a friend to a car accident, he died right before my eyes, and then to lose Dad—’ He breaks off, twisting his thumb and forefinger round his wrist and that single gesture takes me back to when we were children, sharing hard, hurtful things.
I cross the boat, put my hand on his shoulder. Instantly, he stops twisting and then he and I are thinking the same thing, that we are in each other’s bones, under each other’s skin, that on this boat, on these estuary waters, we forged a friendship that meant something then. Maybe it still does.
‘I wish I’d reached out,’ I say.
‘Yeah.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He shrugs. ‘You’re here now. We’re both here. Still standing.’
Barely.
‘I read you got a new boat,’ I say, changing the subject.
‘You saw that, did you?Sea Heart’s nearly ready to go, I just need to get the engine replaced, the old one was spilling its guts all over the bilge.’
‘Why the name?’
‘I thought you of all people would know.’
I must look confused because he says, ‘You don’t remember?’
‘Remember what?’
He reaches into the pocket of his shorts, holds out his fist, drops something flat and circular into my palm. It’s a drift seed, the colour of melted chocolate, a black seam round it. The width of my lost baby’s palm.
‘Drift Seedwasn’t the best name for a boat. ButSea Heart, that’s a solid name.’
I feel its shine in my palm. ‘You kept looking.’
‘I never stopped. Haven’t found many over the years, no more than eight. This one’s the best, it’s the first one I found after we started. Won’t go fishing without it.’ He sniffs. ‘When we got hit by that wave and I was towed under, all I could think about was that drift seed, it was there, in my pocket, I prayed to it, that I would come through, see my wife, Martha, again—’ I wipe tears from my eyes. ‘—And I did. Then, when Martha lost the baby—’
‘She lost her baby?’ It is foreign to me. That it could happen to another person. I’ve been so consumed by my private grief.
He nods. ‘I gave it to her. I met an Icelandic fisherman who told me it was a birth charm. Then, we had Seb.’
‘I lost my baby,’ I say suddenly, and it is awful and freeing. I hadn’t realised how much I’d wanted to say it.
‘When?’
‘A few weeks ago.’ I look back to Durgan, the curve of beach, the cottage. How small it looks.
He says nothing for a long time, just watches me, our bodies swaying with the rhythm of the boat. Then, he closes my hand over the drift seed. ‘Take it.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘It’s yours.’
‘But it’s your lucky charm.’
‘I have seven others. Besides, I started looking for them for you.’
‘Thank you.’ I slip it into my pocket.
He walks back to the cabin; he is writing something down. When he comes out, he says, ‘Do you remember when we were kids and I used to ask you how you were? You always said fine and I believed you. But you weren’t.’ He presses the paper into my hand. ‘This is my number, my email, my address. You don’t have any excuses anymore. Don’t do that thing you do.’
‘That thing I do?’