written by David Michael Joseph

edited by James Cordero

Dave and I sat outside the coffee shop on 6th Street, the one with the crazy Russian Barista who told stories; mostly with an insane and violent bent. The coffeehouse was the place for the dregs, the crazy and the downtrodden, sipping small coffees in between screams, fearful ranting and meth-induced rocking. I knew Dave through Gonzalez, John Gonzalez to be exact. I’d see him at the dark condo that overlooked the harbor. That time I was on the computer and he was sitting in the corner, waiting for John’s instructions.

The story: years ago John was paralyzed in a surfing accident off Cabrillo Beach. Dave, a random onlooker, had saved his life and they became lifelong friends. He was John’s driver in the family van; chauffeuring him around the harbor city. Dave was a very friendly man with a passive, non-threatening demeanor, but his eyes showed something deeper, scars that only the world can give. He had seen things.

I often saw him in the parking lot of the AA meeting hall, weaving his way in and out of the recovering hordes on 20th Street. He would be standing amongst them, six-foot-three frame rising above the rest, his reddened eyes peering out from deep inside his blotchy face. The peaceful drunk would greet me with a smile and a handshake. We would exchange trivial banter and go our separate ways.

On this night I don’t know how the conversation arose or who spoke the initial words, but we started to talk about the sea. I think I asked Dave what he did for a living, when he actually did something. He said he worked on the sea as a fisherman. I was amazed. All my time in town and I had never known a sailor or seaman. Popeye was the only seaman I recalled being out in the high water and I never actually saw him on a boat. My buddy Dubs once told me his Grandfather Ollie Olsen was the actual inspiration for the cartoon character. I was buddy with the great-grandson of Popeye. I guess that made me somewhat relevant after all. My uncle was a diver for the Navy during the Vietnam war. I don’t know if that counts. He told tales of swimming under the Indian ocean, avoiding sea snakes and doing whatever a diver does during a war. I guessed it was classified he never really went into much detail.

We occupied a small table outside the shop. Dave sat back, relaxed, in his usual, friendly place. The night was cool and 6th Street was empty, as always, I asked Dave about his job as a catcher of fish. He sat back and reflected for a few seconds, then leaned forward and his thin, purplish mouth started to move.

He told me about the Boat itself, how the deck was far above the waterline. A man could get seriously injured if he fell over the side. It was very rare when they could pull an unfortunate soul back on deck at night, during rough seas.

One rule, he said, was the crew had to settle all personal issues before they went out to sea. There couldn’t be any ill feeling or rivalry. All beefs had to be smashed before one stepped on deck. I asked him why. He said because they were at sea for a while and anything could happen. You had to play nice. Someone could ‘do you’ and leave you for fish bait. One push overboard and you were just a memory to the few back on land that knew of you. So, before you jumped aboard, you had to make good vibes with all.

The second rule was never to let anyone not a crewmember board your ship. Ever. That was the law of the ocean. No one boards another’s ship with the exception of the Coast Guard. He said that, realistically, there were no laws on the sea. It was every man and every boat for themselves. Robbing, killing and piracy were a reality once you hit the deeper waters, far from land, where there was no one to help. He said they always carried shotguns aboard the boat.

Dave changed the topic from the felonious to the festive and my friend’s eyes lit up as he talked about the cocaine and drinking aboard ship. He said there was a party every night. It was one giant, sea-going party. Although, cocaine with no women made me wonder; why waste a good hook-up buzz on a boatload of dudes? I would save my judgments and questions for another time. I pictured Dave in the galley, doing lines off a small, worn formica tabletop and pulling fishing lines up at a frantic pace. Staying up for days, catching fish, crabs and vices: the lore of the sea.

I remember the fishing trips I went on as a child were spent most of the time throwing up over the side. My grandfather said I was chumming. I’d up-chuck and be left leaning over the rail, eyeing the green bile leave my gut and float away. I hated the sea and was meant to stand on land; both my feet flat on dry, hard ground and waving at all those fool playing Captain Ahab. With these memories firmly planted in my gray matter, I knew Dave must have a rock-hard constitution.

Dave eyes danced with the recall as he told his tale. I could tell the love was returning, the lust for the water was rushing through his veins. His pupils exploded with joy as his mouth frothed.

He stopped, paused and returned to the present, as he leaned back and scanned the night sky. He mentioned being at sea when a storm hit. He said they tied themselves to their bunks and laughed. Laughed like mad men. They knew their lives were done. He said there was no way, he thought then, that they were leaving the boat. The vessel would sink and he would be lying on the bottom with the clams and the coral.

I pictured Dave, all six-foot-three, skinny framed, lying in the top bunk, giggling as his eyes screamed fear, squawking desperate prayers to the Lord of the Ocean, begging Neptune to spare them from a wet death. Yes, they survived to fish again and their tell stories of sea madness and addiction.

Dave’s thousand league stare fixed far into the distance, peering into the nighttime sky and listening to the ocean sing its captivating, violent song. I left Dave that night as he went his way and I went mine, off into the harbor city night.

Later that month, I saw the Man from Kentucky, another denizen of the harbor city. He was sitting on a bus bench on Pacific Ave waiting on the 146 bus. He was a large man, well over six-feet-tall. He had a thick build with huge tree-trunk legs. He always wore a jacket and shorts, it was his costume. I first met him while I was up at Troy’s Diner, eating a chicken salad, which was my routine on weekend nights: if I had the money. I would go the cafe and read Bukowski as I dove into the grilled chicken mixed with the iceberg lettuce and cucumbers, drowned in blue cheese salad dressing. I saw him outside, admonishing a young black youth for doing a bad hand-to-hand drug deal in the open. Not that he was dealing, just doing it badly, with no sense of the neighborhood’s ebb and flow. He screamed at him while scanning the dark parking lot and beyond with a practiced eye. Instead of the cops, he noticed me as I stepped quickly inside, trying my best to turn invisible. I hurriedly slid into one of the clean, back booths. Finding a clean booth was usually a luxury.

As I turned to chapter 5 of Post Office, he entered, sat down in my booth and stared at me. His snaggle-teeth stabbed outward from his bottom jaw while the entire top row of teeth were missing. Probably in lost in some alley altercation or disintegrated by the magic of Meth. His eyes focused in on me from under a dirty black baseball hat (I don’t remember the team)
“You got a cigarette?” he commanded.

I didn’t smoke I told him.
“You got a dollar?”

I handed him a dollar as if it was my key to salvation. He took it and made his way back out into the harbor night. That was my first encounter with the Man from the mountains. We became cool and I never had a problem with him. He was friendly and opened up to me about his life. That night he talked about shooting pigs in the jungles of Southeast Asia. He said they would hear a rumbling coming towards them. It was horrible sound but once revealed the it was scores of wild pigs. He also shared other events I can’t reveal, due to the fact: people would come to find me. So, when I saw him on that sunny weekend, I approached him without hesitation.

Still mesmerized by sea stories, I asked him about Dave, both being longtime Pedro fixtures, and he verified the whole thing, down to the last vowel breathed.

“I had seen some strange thing out there on the sea. Things I cannot identify.”
He told me about once seeing a round light flying over the deep, blue sea while being chased by Air Force jets.

“Ask the Greeks down by the fishing boats. You see all types of things out there.”
Then he talked about the storms. He told me of being on the Pacific during a raging storm, the waves so massive the boat seemed to be sucked into a hole in the ocean. The torrential waters like walls surrounding the ship on all sides and he could hardly see the sky escaping from view.

I pictured the Kentucky Man at sea, wind blowing against his weathered face, the salty air’s abuse going unnoticed. The mountain seaman stared into the endless ocean, not fearing death nor expecting life. Just a man on the port side, praying to God silently, while cursing Neptune aloud.

His story ended as he dropped his head, silently reminiscing on another time. Did he miss the Sea? Why the sadness? Did he lose a friend? Lose himself?
I gave him a pat on his back and walked away, thinking to myself; Popeye was a bitch.