Roxanne Bouchard - We Were the Salt of the Sea

Anyway, I was sitting at the café well before the fishermen came in, my feet all trussed up in heels, my hair tucked behind my ear, my summer dress bearing nary a wrinkle. A gentle, warm breeze was blowing, ruffling skirts, drawing the sea air in through the window and turning my cheeks all rosy.

The boats made their appearance late in the morning. By then I had drunk so much caffeine, my clammy hands were shaking. They made their approach, moored up at the wharf. I leaned back casually in my chair and crossed my legs. The fishermen jumped out onto the dock.

I honestly don’t know what could have led me to imagine Cyrille Bernard was a handsome, strapping young man. Really, I have no idea. Vital, Victor, Renaud and Guylaine, they had all warned me not to harbour any expectations about the Gaspé, so why the hell had I dolled myself up like this? Because, let’s face it, Cyrille was nothing special to look at. Age had thinned his hair, stretched his ears out of proportion and wreaked havoc with the spacing of his teeth, and scars streaked his face. So, in spite of all his kindness, it took a while to get used to his physical appearance.

In a split second, I realised my only option was to make a swift exit. I left money on the table, grabbed my bag and made a beeline for the door, but they had come over so quickly, on their way in they were blocking my escape route. And Vital took care of the rest.

When he caught sight of me, he turned casually to Cyrille and pointed at me in the way you would a thirty-cent trinket on a cheap souvenir stand. ‘That’s her!’

The old sea dog lifted his gaze and looked down at me, like a ship’s captain sizing up a rookie sailor. I forced a smile.

You can never know the sea.

He looked me up and down, down and up, as I, my handbag, my skimpy dress, my bejewelled décolleté and my heels melted into a puddle of shame on the doormat.

‘That’s her, the girl who wanted to meet you.’

‘I… I’ve finished my breakfast… I was just leaving… Can we do this another time?’

‘Christ in a chalice, Cyrille, you never were a ladies’ man, were you?’

Laughter rained down on me as, embarrassed by all that I was, I squirmed my way towards a door firmly obstructed by a Cyrille who was clearly not about to step aside. Vital, Victor and the other fisherman carried on to a table, but Cyrille Bernard stood there, unmoving like a stubborn hockey goalie. I felt a pang of anxiety, I had to admit. Panic, almost.

The water and the salt.

‘Heee… Calm yourself. If you run off on me, I won’t have enough breath to catch you, will I?’

His every whistling in-breath was laboured.

‘Excuse me… I… I have things to do—’

‘Tourists never have anything to do. Heee… What’s your name?’

‘Catherine.’

‘Catherine what?’

‘Day. Catherine Day.’

‘Heee… Look at me, then, Catherine Day.’

I lifted my gaze and his blue eyes saw right through me in a flash.

The unfathomable depth, the unpredictable nature, the backwash, the tides.

He took a step backwards.

Yet…

‘Heee… Where are you from?’

‘Montreal.’

‘Why do you want to see me? Heee… Hoping I’ll take you on a boat ride? I don’t like taking tourists out fishing.’

When the hull turns seaward, when the long, ephemeral waves hoist me to the top of the world and carry me home in their whispering cradle, when the wind wisps into the genoa and fills the mainsail, only then do my cares drift and fade away. I trim the sails, take the helm, and the horizon is all mine.

‘No, no, it’s not that. I… I’m on holiday, I’ve got nothing to do and Renaud said that you might—’

‘That I might what?’

‘I don’t know… Take my mind off things… tell me all about the sea, teach me.’

He started to chuckle – mocking, insulting me.

‘If you want to learn about the sea, you’re going to have to stop running, love. Heee… That’s the very first thing I can tell you. Find a rocking chair, sit on a porch looking out at the waves… heee… and rock. That’s all. Just relax and you’ll be halfway there. Heee…’

That’s where I am happy, amidst the terrifying, tumultuous splendour of the open sea.

He moved aside and I was able to slip away. Though, strangely enough, I no longer felt the urge to escape. Slowly, I walked back up to the auberge . I slipped off my heels to walk barefoot over the seaweed-streaked pebbles. Against the tide, out at sea, the Indigenous fishermen were pulling their lobster traps up from the horizon.

The first tourists were starting to flock to the beach, but the sea was still too chilly for many to dare take the plunge. Sitting on the sand, I hung around aimlessly.

When the tide retreats, an anchor takes hold in my throat. With every wave that passes it pulls a little more, choking me. As the tide races, I feel the pain right here, in my chest. An echo, swallowing the outlines of words, gnawing at whispers. The loss.

Half past twelve. In the sun, brave children dared to venture into the sea’s chilly folds. Perfect girls shivered in colourful bikinis, stealing glances at semi-tanned, frisbee-throwing boys.

The sea shakes these turbulent pictures of mine around in its heavy backwash as the headless hallelujahs of my castaways sway from the ends of my dangling arms. And I am powerless.

I got up quickly. Too quickly. In a daze, I stumbled over to the water’s edge to stretch my legs. Throwing stones into the sea, I smiled through my teeth at passing children. Standing barefoot on the shore, I grabbed fistfuls of rocks.

‘Started picking up agates then, have you love? Heee…’

The whistle of his breathing sounded like tanned-leather bellows. It could only be Cyrille. I lifted my gaze.

‘Show me.’

I opened my hand. Half a dozen red, green, white stones. ‘I keep finding pretty little rocks, all marbled and streaked, but no agates.’

‘Heee… I’ve never understood why people spend their time hunting for agates. Trying their patience, I suppose.’

I curled my fingers back over my palm. ‘They’re semi-precious stones, apparently.’

‘I don’t know if they’re precious or not, but those ones aren’t half lucky to be in your hand. Heee…’

I opened my hand again for a look.

‘For what it’s worth, there’s a great big agate right next to your left foot.’

I picked it up.

He started walking, and I followed him. I was happy he’d come to find me.

‘Changed out of that fancy dress, have you? Didn’t get to see that for very long, did I?’

‘Some things have to be earned, you know!’

‘Renaud told Vital you wanted to meet me. Heee… Want to come fishing, do you?’

‘No. It was Renaud’s idea. He said you’d take my mind off things with your stories.’

‘Heee… You must be bored out of your tree!’

‘I’ve been feeling a bit off ever since I got here. I’m not sure I like all this. Whenever I spend a long time by the sea, I get this uneasy feeling… I don’t know… like there’s something in my heart trying to break loose.’

‘That’s normal.’

‘Normal?’

‘You come here on holiday, you’re feeling happy and healthy, and you think the sea’s going to do you good. Heee… But that’s not true. She’s a harsh one, is the sea, and you’ve got to have a thick skin to look her in the eye. She’ll set your memories all in a spin, like a washing machine.’

‘I don’t have that many memories to spin around, though.’