- Why don't you fire him? The old man is obviously too rough.
The Head of the boat station hesitated with the answer. The young inspector was far from being the first to complain about the watchman. As a matter of fact, the old man had lost the way to get along with other people due to years of damn stubborn voluntary reclusion. At daytime he hid in a hut near the abandoned pier to walk out after sunset. His shift ended at dawn, when the first fishermen and romantic vacationers showed up.
- It is hard to find someone else. The wage is miserable and the work schedule, you know, won`t suit an ordinary person, - the boss was eager to add something sarcastic, like “D`you suffer from insomnia?”, but he restrained himself and suddenly asked, “Pity the old man, change the report. Better come for the weekend, we`ll arrange an excellent fishing for you. D`you have kids?
- Not yet, - the inspector muttered.
- You can say the old man doesn`t either… He`s living with a charming dog.
- I saw that charmer. Sheer monster.
- It is, - the chief smiled broadly, - We call him Admiral. Won`t let anybody sniff around. Rather hot today. Beer?
- I`m on duty, - the inspector licked his dry lips, - However ...
The guest took off light jacket, loosened the knot of the twenty-dollar tie.
- Why is the old man called Dictator?
The host took a couple of cans from the frig, pushed the papers to the edge of the table and leaned back on the chair. The peeling antiques creaked in indignation.
- That`s a different story. You can imagine he wasn`t always a watchman ...
The silence - laced with the smell of rotting seaweed – broke sometimes with the sobs of sleeping waves. The old man switched on his hand cranked flashlight and examined the boats pulled out on the sand. He chose the one seemed clean from the garbage and with rain water splashing on the bottom. Then he marked the dry ones with large pebbles to report to the boss that they were leaking. To tar and to caulk was not his responsibility: «let the lazy bastards do their job». Groaning and straining, he pushed his choice out onto the wet.
- Well, Admiral, now you keep watching alone.
The dog sat down and prepared to wait patiently. He never whined or begged. Usually, Admiral made a misleading impression of being deaf-mute. He attacked rare profanes silently but strong. The dog knocked down and held the victim till Master came. The locals were quite aware of Admiral's harsh manners and did not dare to play pranks. Once the dog almost strangled cool visiting rich. The man barely recovering from the assault offered a fabulous amount of money for the fanged offender. The watchman did not even deal. That very case convinced the philistines of the codger`s hundred percent "lunacy" as the parish priest would say.
Wetted oarlocks did not give out rhythmic strokes, and the boat peacefully glided along the moonlit path straight to the cherished point.
Somewhere here. The old man carefully lowered the cat-anchor overboard. Very soon the rope tightened, the boat twitched and froze with its bow to the invisible coastline. The weather favored to fool horse mackerel but the old man preferred to catch goby fish or - if he was somewhat lucky – flounders. For that purpose, he practiced a primitive tackle consisting of a heavy sinker and just a couple of hooks. Mussels from the pier seemed good enough for a bait. The man called that way of fishing «easylife». With the line wrapped around big toe the old man lay down on his back clasped hands under bare head. The result of the game was of little importance to him. Like many other things that he got tired or forgot how to love, but did not start to hate limiting himself to cold neglect. The sole passion remained the Sea. Only at night, when it belonged exclusively to him, without gaudy swimsuits, stinking jet skis, arrogant yachts - all this small fry that squandered the Universe for crumbs. He felt the Sea was itching from prying eyes and rough touches, and that itch infected the old man, and he did not hide his irritation, and was rude to the vacationers, and was insolent to the authorities, and broke down on the dog. Under the cover of night, he saw the Sea as an endless painting, without a frame, without an author, without whining and conventions, and that allowed him to feel at the very heart of the canonical abyss wherever he really was. The old man worshiped the Sea. Worshiped and feared. Feared and respected. For might and inflexibility, for wisdom and generosity, for severity and condescension, for the ability to dictate the rules even hunched over and backing away. Every moment of his life he tried to behave like his idol, losing friends, making enemies, until both of them equaled in price.
The line jerked the toe. The old man reluctantly got up and hooked. The prey resisted sluggishly but nevertheless he leaned over the board to catch it in time. At that moment the boat rocked, the old man fell out.
Next day the fishermen found the body stuck in the coastal trash. With obvious relief: «Dictator is dead» they called the police. The officer wondered how the victim managed to get drowned barely a hundred yards from the shore. The Head of the boat station clarified the situation: "The old man could not swim."
And yet again it was he – the Head - who took Admiral away to look after.
P.S.
- Dad, do parallel lines never meet?
The beach inspector glanced at his young wife, at his son, at a new unfinished report.
- That's what people say. But I'm not sure…