On Blue

on one of those lazy afternoons davis told us about his boat. davis called it a yacht, but that term required a stretch of the imagination. from the faded and scuffed photo he pulled from his brown and similarly scuffed wallet, i could see it was more of a sea relic of old wood and chipped paint, the sails hanging limply, pocked with rips and patches. davis was standing against the left side of the worn bow, his sun-bronzed back glistening into the camera, his tangle of burnt auburn hair curling around his head as he stared off across the deep-blue and white-crested waves. he had inherited the boat from an old man years ago when he was still young. he was walking along a stone beach in northern california when he came across the old man, white stubble dotting his wrinkled face and his back creaking as he stooped to tie the ship's rope to a wooden pier. he offered the old man twenty dollars, which he didn't have, and was surprised when he told him it was his to keep. he had the old man take the picture of him standing in the stern with his old kodak camera and then he sailed out into the pacific. the third night out at sea he ran the boat ashore somewhere along big sur, gashing open the hull on the rocky coast. he stood on the cold, wet sand with the moonlight flickering off the crashing surf and watched the skeleton of his boat drift out with the tide and slowly sink beneath the black, hissing waves.