The Coming of the Whirlpool by Andrew McGahan Page B

smouldering in the old man’s bloodshot stare, but Dow now knew the tale of that bitterness, and somehow it even lent Nathaniel a strange authority. The other men, with the exception of Boiler, seemed to have shrunk in comparison.
    Mother Gale, however, was shaking her head. ‘The life of the sea, you say, Boiler? What life of the sea? No one here lives that life anymore. You live only the life of the bay, and that’s another thing entire.’
    Boiler’s red face flushed redder. ‘Don’t mock us, woman, until you’ve seen what we’ve seen.’ Then he said to Dow, ‘We are cursed men, remember, and only death awaits us upon the ocean. We fish as we must.’
    But Dow had glanced to Nathaniel and caught a gleam in the old man’s eye; a flicker of contempt that dismissed and denied Boiler’s justifications. And hadn’t Dow already seen it himself – of all these timid fisherman, Nathaniel alone was fearless enough to launch his boat in a storm, or to dare the Rip in flood. The old man was a danger, yes, but if Dow truly wanted to learn of the wild ocean, then to whom else could he turn? He remembered what it had been like to master the boat out in the Rip, and by his own skill tear it free of the currents. He would never experience that again if he went back to the highlands – nor indeed would he ever experience it in any boat that sailed from Stromner, except for one.
    â€˜I will stay with Nathaniel,’ he said, eyeing the old man directly, amazed at the confidence in his own voice. ‘If he will have me. And I will sail with him and learn of the sea, wherever he might voyage upon it.’
    Mother Gale was rocking back and forth on her seat, nodding gleefully as if she had foreseen this all along, but Nathaniel only straightened severely for a moment, his unreadable gaze fixed upon Dow.
    â€˜So be it,’ he said at last. Then he turned and went out into the night, not waiting to see if Dow followed.

T he foul weather held throughout that night, and for a further day and night beyond, but then the clouds and rain blew away and there came a sun-filled morning and a warming breeze from the south east. It marked the beginning of summer, and of Dow’s initiation into the fishing life. For the next three months he lived in Nathaniel’s house and sailed in Nathaniel’s boat and hauled on Nathaniel’s nets and obeyed the old man in all ways. And there were two things that Dow discovered about himself. He loved sailing – the boats, the water, the wind. But he hated fishing.
    Every day followed the same pattern. Dow would be roused before dawn by the clatter through the thin walls of Nathaniel boiling tea. The fisherman was always the first awake, despite the fact that he drank late into every night, long after Dow had gone to his dismal bed. Some nights Dow was sure he did not sleep at all. The two of them would breakfast frugally and wordlessly, then, as the sun was rising, they would trudge down to the beach and to Nathaniel’s boat, the Maelstrom .
    The other men of the village would be there, preparing their own craft. Most of the boats were somewhat larger than the Maelstrom, carrying a crew of three or even four, but so shrunken was the population of Stromner that only half a dozen such vessels could be manned on any given day. There were few young faces among the crews, and not a single lad of Dow’s age. Perhaps that was why the morning launch was so cheerless. Dow had imagined that, with the promise of a new day ahead, there would be shouts and laughter between the men, as there had been with the timber cutters back home. But there was no laughter, and little enough talk.
    Nathaniel, in any case, remained apart from the others. In silence, he and Dow would slide the Maelstrom down over the stones and into the water, and just as silently lower the keel and set the sail. Then, in the light morning airs, and with the sun