He turned his back towards the port town of Nassau. Under his arm he carried an old wooden fishing pole and a bucket, and over his back he’d slung a net containing two large fish, one golden, the other a silvery black. He was making his way back, and his bare feet gripped the jagged rocks that lay strewn about the northern beaches of New Providence. They were sharp and slippery, but the years had taught him where it was safe to step. The day was waning, and the star-shaped fort to the southeast was cloaked in scarlet hues. Walking westward, he passed the crumbling walls of stone homes that had at one point been the pride of the town, and then the tainted wooden walls of others still. He didn’t venture into town much anymore, but he was still glad to see some people continued to call it home, regardless. Nassau had lost the allure of its privateering past, but there was still work to be had, mouths to be fed and beds to be made. The fort overlooking the town had been rebuilt with borrowed coin and the newly installed streetlights shone their light brightly, not risking the smallest lie of who it was the town now belonged to. Despite everything Nassau had gained, he felt it had also lost something.
He had caught a small mahi-mahi and a larger barracuda, and he thought it not the worst catch. The ruckus of the workers loudly drinking and contesting in the distance died off as their cries were drowned out by crashing waves. They broke and foamed on the white sands of the Bahamian shoreline. The first time he had caught a barracuda he’d been clueless how to go about unhooking it. It had been yapping its teeth-ridden jaws ferociously at him as he tried to stare it down, but he’d hesitated far too long. The fish snapped the line and swam off, disappearing into the surf, presumably to make life worse for some other fisherman on some other shore. That had been a small fish, and that had been a long time ago.
He made his way closer to the old shipyard, now no longer used. A dozen old ships, some dragged there, most abandoned, made up the coastline. Hundreds of crabs made their homes between driftwood and seaweed and skittered into their burrows as his shadow passed them. The broken masts of ships that still had theirs painted dark silhouettes against the crimson glow. Like flagpoles of a city that none dared live in. The new governor had been in no rush to clear the remnants of the old republic from the surrounding beaches, instead focussing his efforts on the port and town itself. He couldn’t blame him. After all, who would care about the stranded dreams of men who were nothing but a thorn in the eyes of so many? Nothing but vagrants now made their home there, and it had become a destitute place, offering a certain calm for those who dared seek it.
The foam of the waves left a brine of salt and plants as they softly turned flow over the rocks and sand. Crisp air filled his nostrils as the last of the town’s lights disappeared from view, obscured by the large wreckage of a galleon stuck in the shallows. It had crashed there, God knows when, when it had come too close to port. None had told if it had been by accident or on purpose, so now one was left spinning their own tales about what its rotting planks would never tell. Flying from its mast, a salt-bitten Spanish flag still wore its faded colors proudly as it danced in the breeze. He felt a sense of comfort every time he saw that ship. It reminded him of grand days, bountiful plunder and great feasts enjoyed with friends from all corners of the seas. The galleon was close to home. It wouldn’t be long before the rock-hewn walls of his own fort would welcome him again.
Other folks disliked the cave. Bats roosted there, though not as many as they’d have you believe. There had also been talk in town of the ill fate that had befallen some who entered. He wasn’t much for superstition and had made a comfortable home there. He had a fireplace, a place to cook, and a board, a place to sleep, and wanted for little more. He enjoyed the wide berth people gave the cave, and him. He didn’t mind people, but he also didn’t mind their absence. He liked the sea more, and she had been a comforting companion.
The fish slowly roasted over an open flame as a stranger made his way towards him, seemingly appearing out of the rushing water. The stranger wore an old blue coat, like the ones the British navy supplied. He had a full, unkempt beard with patches of grey and his ratty hair fell down to his shoulders.
“Trade?”
“I have nothing of worth!”
The stranger pointed at the firepit by which he was seated.
“Fish for an ale?”
It’s hard to give up the comfort of solitude for the comfort of company. Still, he did not get to speak much and was heard even less. The promise of beer helped.
The stranger sat opposite him, devouring the prepared barracuda with little modesty. The mahi-mahi was the tastier fish, anyway. The ale was still cold, somehow, even in the tranquil warmth of the Bahamian summer. He found it quaint but not unfathomable. He then noticed that the log upon which the stranger had taken place, as well as the ground beneath it, had become dark and damp.
“You’re welcome to dry your clothes, I have a blanket you can wear in the meantime.”
“That’s alright, lad. A sailor wants for many things, but for him to be dry surely isn’t one.”
They both couldn’t help but stifle a laugh.
“How has this life been treating you?”, the stranger asked.
“I served aboard schooners first, taking odd jobs wherever I found them. I came here first when Avery landed the Fancy on the beach and Governor Trott took his first bribe. I joined a crew and we fished for marlins around the islands. Business was good, but we aspired, so eventually we took to hunting whales on the Atlantic. I did not know then that in order to hunt a whale, one sets out on a skiff, armed with harpoons to spearfish them like you would any ordinary catch. Still, these depths hold no greater monsters than they, and I feared them greatly. Once, one came up beneath us after we had hooked it, capsizing our skiff, and it looked me straight in the eye as it circled around. The terror in its eyes I’d only before seen in man. It opened its mouth, sucking in the water surrounding it, and one of our crew got stuck between its baleen plates. The beast did not know what to do with him. I learned later that a whale couldn’t swallow a man whole even if it wanted to. Its throat is too small. It then swam over to our main vessel, our man still dangling from its mouth, and released the man there before fleeing. I feared them then for entirely different reasons and promptly stopped hunting them. I then hunted Brits, French and Spaniards instead. I’ve served on galleons, helped take more than a few, and grounded many more on these shallow shores.”
He gestured to the Spanish ship behind the stranger.
“We couldn’t decide upon the spoils, so some of us started a mutiny and sank it on the rocks. The survivors spent days picking off whatever made its way to the beach like vultures taking to a carcass.
The stranger smirked and it crinkled a small crescent-shaped scar beneath his eye.
“I was here when Hornigold and Teach started the Flying Gang and made this island into a republic to be feared by many, and a place to call home for many more. For close to 30 years my ship found port here. I fought the French and Spanish when their frigates tried to take us. I was here when the Brits succeeded where they had previously failed. I was here when they all ran, and I was here when the same men we had trusted with our lives instead came to take them. I’ve collected my fair share of scars and stories, until someday, somehow it was all done. Now I rest here, waiting. For adventure, another journey, who’s to say?”
The stranger laughed, then cast a quick glance over his shoulder towards the faltering port town in the distance. He bowed forward and spoke in a forced whisper, too loud for it to even be one.
“Don’t you think it’s time for something new, Elijah?”
He was taken by the sudden mention of his name. The townsfolk had probably told the stranger, he figured, and he entertained the startling thought no longer. The stranger spoke again.
“The people of Nassau have grown so dull and fearful, and you are growing so very weary of them.”
Elijah took a moment, then admitted. The stranger rested one arm on his knee and gestured towards the outlines of the fort with the other.
“Those people are useless, and this place has become even more so. It’ll never be again as it once was. Why don’t you give it up and sail with me?”
“What would I be doing?”
The stranger stood up and took a few careful steps towards the water’s edge.
“The only thing that’s left for you to do, son, and none do it better than you. But for you to do it, you will have to let go of everything you’ve gathered and allow it to die.”Elijah did not know what to say for a minute but then decided on the only response he could muster.
“Who are you?”
The stranger turned around, beckoning Elijah to come, then spreading his arms as he waded deeper into the ocean.
“My story is not one for telling, rather for believing. I’ve sailed these parts for ages. I rode the four winds long before your feared Flying Gang were even a glimmer in the eyes of their fathers. I became one with the waters of the world. I was in far Asia where Wõkòu signed pacts with demons from the deep. I was in Europe, where travelers set out on their ships to find forgotten lands amidst the endless water. Eventually, I came all the way to the coasts of the Americas, where settlers decimated native tribes only to enslave others yet to toil their blood-drenched fields. I’ve seen men parched and seagulls famished, and I was there when all found their peace in the locker. I’ve been on these seas far before it was outlawed to do so, and I will still be sailing it when it is once again allowed, make no mistake. Who I am, Elijah, is destiny, and for you to even glimpse it you will have to cast your life aside. Let go, and embark on a glorious, final adventure.”
Elijah stood up, passed the embers of the dwindling fire, and stood next to the stranger. It was silent as they breathed and looked and listened. A small crab sidled softly in the dark. Their feet dug deep in the turmoil of the loose coastal sand as the current of the tides gently coaxed them inwards. Into the depths of the deep-blue mysteries. The fireplace smoldered as the shape of the Spanish galleon that had smashed upon the reefs, drowning most of its crew in a wooden sarcophagus, contoured sharply against the night sky.
After that night, the townfolk and vagrants of Nassau remarked a change in the old cave to the west. It no longer felt as it once did, and it was as if something had gone from it. Whatever went, it took with it a certain something that Nassau had once had, but had no longer. It would come back briefly, during the America’s war for independence. Then once more during the newly established nation’s period of prohibition. Then no longer. The vagrants finally took to the cave, fearing it no more, and found it a worthwhile home. Nassau had its glory days, and now times were changing; for everyone who had made their home there, and all who have had to leave it behind. For now, the winds were quiet, and all was well.
It is said that on some nights, when the moon strikes the beach just right, and the silt in the air tickles the skin, the faint aroma of freshly roasted fish can still be caught drifting from the small cave, almost as if someone, somewhere can’t help but honor the remembrance of days long past.
I feel sad for the whale. 🐳🥲🏴☠️ Awesome story bro! Felt like I was on Nassau for a while.