Well Situated

I knew a man whose favorite expression was, “the situation is deteriorating rapidly.” As best I can tell, it never did. That horizon kept moving. The situation perseveres, ragged and jowly. It may be barreling doomward at great velocity, but it is not there yet.

I have not seen that man in a number of years. I wonder if he is still in the crawlspace of his bi-level, with the wind report in one hand and the edicts of AccuWeather in the other. All he wanted was a fair fight with the flukes of Barnegat Bay. You can fish in the rain. You can fish when gnats fleck your skin like feral freckles. You can fish with norovirus, gout, or “Sweet Caroline” stuck in your head. You can fish if you forget to pack your little snacks. But you cannot fish when the high wind wants its own way. You must forsake flounder when the situation is deteriorating rapidly.

I never told the man I prayed for the situation. He did not believe in the power of prayer. He believed in turmeric supplements, Costco executive membership, and respect for the Coast Guard. The law said you must release any flounder under eighteen inches. He fought Leviathans he was sure would be nineteen, twenty, even twenty-five. He tugged with strength unforeseen as sweat soaked his eyebrows and all his Eagles tattoos writhed. Breathless in victory, he reached for the measuring tape. If the fluke was seventeen inches and fifteen sixteenths, it returned alive to the sea. The wind moves where it will, but honor fits in a human hand.

I wanted to pray one way, but I had to pray another. I would have preferred for seraphs to sabotage the situation. I turned seasick even stock-still in the bay. No pressure-point bracelets or essential oils could aid my equilibrium. Back ashore, I could not partake of the spoils. I would not eat flesh, not even from a flatfish with eyes like a psychopath, not even if the man sang while he grilled it. I wanted to pray for high winds and a sunk situation. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.

When the situation began deteriorating rapidly, I prayed some great white bird would swallow the wind. It is not too much to ask. Captives once crossed the sea on dry land. More than once my prayer was granted. Knots loosened. Miracle goosed meteorology. The man sprang aboard, jaunty and reborn. The reprieve turned him tender, worried for my well-being. He nibbled Goldfish crackers on the prow, smiling like the first guest at the surprise party. He told his son I was his favorite daughter-in-law. He said it would be true even if there were seventy-seven more.

I never told the man I forgave his son. He would not have heard me over the wind. I wonder if I will someday spot him indoors. I may see the back of a Salt Life cap in the supermarket, pretzel fish in hand. I will know him by the cookies in his basket, little cinnamon bears with arms outstretched. As best he could tell, the situation deteriorated rapidly. There are seaways he has not yet crossed. The anchor holds.