The Old Crabber

The sun was barely above the horizon when the crabber untied his boat and set himself free from the solid ground. With each wave he crossed, heading dead set sea, marked a greater distance between him and everything to try to to with him. With every crest, he was a bit further faraway from is house. The old spluttering engine took him ten miles faraway from the port, and as he shut it off the land from which he’d come was hardly visible. Now he only felt reception on the ocean. The sea’s smell carried his memories, its openness formed his walls, his pictures were made up of the sunshine which danced over the waves. He dropped his two lines off both sides of his boat and sat back. the ocean was calm and the early morning sun, still low within the sky, edged its way towards him over the haphazard water. the ocean was where he could think. Not that he was a thinking man. Really he was a rememberer. The crabber never thought in the long run, never worried financially or planned carefully. He thought back. He remembered. And on the ocean, free from conditions of your time and place, his memories could fill his whole vision. Without another person around he had an entire world to himself.