Marty and the Fisherman

Marty had frizzy ginger hair and a freckled face to match. Hopping along the weathered docks by the harbour, she hummed a made-up song and smiled vaguely at her surroundings: a cloud in the distance shaped like a fish, a seagull that looked to have lipstick on… and a man on a boat with a squinty eye that she tried to copy.

Marty stopped, out of breath with the effort of walking under the August sun, hefting her lunch pail and chalk slate with tiny hands. She set her school things on the floorboards. Looking at the squinty-eyed man, Marty watched as he wiped his wrinkled forehead with the back of his sleeve and shouted across the boat. At the other end, a young man shouted back, cranking a noisy winch which hauled up a thick fishing net, metres long and yellowed with age. Marty stood on tiptoes to watch it emerge from the water. It was fat and sagging, soaked through and smattering fat drops of salt water on the drenched deck. A fishing boat with an empty net?

Curiosity getting the better of her, she abandoned her things and drew closer to the vessel. Where had the men been? Or were they going out? How far had they sailed to catch their fish? She came nearer still, and the smell of rotting seaweed and something sour filled her nostrils, but she hardly noticed as she saw what was inside the net.

Silver tails thrashing and catching the sunlight, a thousand or more salmon wiggled inside the thick netting, their fins and tails sticking out through the gaps in the mesh. She knew she should feel bad for the creatures as they helplessly gasped in the sea air, but instead, her mouth hung open in awe, the net becoming an ever-growing shadow above her. She had walked to the side of the boat without even noticing.

“Quite a sight, eh?” asked the squinty-eyed man when he saw the girl inch over. “First big haul this week, and that’s for certain. The finest catch in Peggy’s Cove!” He went on, unsure of how exactly to talk to a six-year-old girl. Drawn from her trance by the sound of his voice, Marty watched the man squint hard at the fish being pulled in. He breathed through his mouth, showing a fine set of yellowed teeth that reminded Marty of the weathered boat.

“How old are you?” Marty asked him without hesitation — the first thing she had said to him. The man’s eyes widened, his sparse grey eyebrows dancing on his forehead in response to the bold and brash question.

“Well!” He said, laughing. “Probably as old as this boat, if you can believe it.” He kicked its wooden edges. Marty’s mouth twisted as she considered his answer.

“No, I believe it,” she responded.

The man laughed again, though Marty wasn’t sure why. He considered her confused face, her height, and then he spotted her little things propped against a dock post.

“Now, what’re you doin’ here, miss? Have you got lost?” He asked, moving to the boat’s edge to look closer at Marty.

“Walking home from school,” she watched as the net was dumped unceremoniously into a large wooden crate. “I never come this way, but I have always wanted to. I got bored of going the usual way because I always do. I guess that is what makes it usual.”

The man nodded.

“I think this way is more fun,” Marty thought aloud. “I liked seeing the big net and the fishes. It’s more interesting.”

“I am glad to hear you say that, you know. Not a lot of townsfolk find this all that interesting.” The old man and the little girl looked out at the harbour. Fishermen shouted back and forth from other boats. On a small vessel, a man yelled at his young apprentice for knotting some ropes wrong. Marty wasn’t sure what they were for, but they must be important ropes for a man to look that angry about it.

“Well, I find it very interesting,” Marty said earnestly.

“Say, do you think you’ll come back this way again? Tomorrow?” The man asked. “I can tell you more if you got the ear for it.” His mouth opened in a wide smile at the prospect of talking more about fishing.

Marty shrugged. “Probably. But I must warn you, I will have a lot of questions. I have a lot of questions about a lot of things — even things I already know. And I know hardly anything about fishing or boats, so probably a lot more questions than normal. And I might irritate you,” she warned him. “I have been told before that I am quite good at that.”

“Nonsense! You? Irritating? Ask me anything you like. Irritate me all you want.”

Marty’s face lit up at the stranger’s permission. “Truly? I can ask you anything? Tomorrow?”

“I am makin’ it a promise to you, that’s for sure and certain.”

Marty smiled. “For sure and certain, then.” She stuck her tiny hand out towards him. “My name is Marty.”

“Well, now mine is Martin!” They grinned at each other. “One and the same!”

Martin’s large, calloused hand enveloped Marty’s, and he shook it vigorously.

“We’re one and the same,” he repeated. And with that, it was settled.