Story Contest

Return
by Terence Proctor

Campbell River at first light. A stillness of dawn slow motions into life.
Ten years, like an oil painting on the wall; the stillness resumes life.
Feet clatter on the wooden steps, and boat fuel spikes the nostrils.
Giant barges siren the straits, as they are tugged with the tide;
A supply line to Alaska.
Salmon and fishermen travel the world, to return and meet again.

On waters edge in the morning light, for a second, life is again a still;
A big man, his face deep under a wide brimmed hat,
Pale and strong in the mist.
Charles Moon, my young Indian guide of ten years ago, stands and looks.
A warm smile, arm raised in welcome, I run to greet my friend,
But in a few steps there is only emptiness and the chill of the morning.
The image is gone.

The urge and bubble of the tide stirs excitement.
Boat guides spin and jostle in the choppy water, as hosts.
The sun bounces light off the water as the silver herring
Churn in their gladiatorial pools.
The giant ships dwarf the skiffs and the salmon smell the silt of home.
In the glint of light a dark image appears. It is the tall Indian Charles Moon.
He stares at me and as the boat rushes forward;
The image is gone.

There is troubled water where the tides meet and the boats seem frail.
The deep calm under the dapple cliffs is the 'Tyee' highway.
A scream as the osprey touches water and buries claws.
Her laboured gait onto the cliffs does not excite the bald eagle.
To stern, in drift, the whirlpool spins and grows;
The image of Charles Moon is in the centre.
He stares at me and as the bald eagle flies, the whirlpool closes;
The image is gone.

Fishermen and salmon meet and some will not meet again.
With guile the seals steal a meal and the gulls are ever keen.
The fire of the sun subdues and the boats head home.
The haunting sound of a pod of whales pings the evening quiet;
And then a shout, a swerve, and the 'Deadhead' skims by in the twilight;
The image of Charles Moon is on the bobbing log.
He stares at me as we move away and then,
The image is gone.

A quiet babble as hunters gather and boats are cleaned.
Life for some has ended and the perils linger for another day.
The mighty straits push and pull, ebb and flow,
Protect and kill; demand respect. A guide lifts his drink in toast to absent friends.
In the red warmth of the sunset, Charles Moon walks slowly
At the waters edge, he stops and stares at me and with a smile,
The image is gone.