Slack Tide

by Jad Josey
 
We banked starboard toward the island, a swath of debris undulating in our wake.
Plastic bottles, diapers, Styrofoam plates like algae on the surface of the ocean. “From
there,” the boatman said, pointing toward another small island in the distance. “The
sea carries the trash to us.” The bow sliced through a flotilla of milk jugs. I let go of
the photograph, and it pitched into the unthinkable blue. I imagined it sinking through
layers of seawater, gelatin unfolding from silver halide.
 
A young boy on a rickety dock cast his fishing line beyond the rim of floating garbage.
He did not look our way as we approached.
 
“Deggy,” the boatman called, “Help him ashore.” The boy put down his pole
reluctantly. The line sank into darkness and was still.
 
Deggy sold me a small baggie of unfamiliar fruit, and I set out toward the other side of
the island, finding a narrow footpath leading into the jungle. When I stopped moving,
large ants swarmed my feet. I stamped the ground to knock them loose.
 
I reached an oblong clearing with a thatched-roof hut. A man in a chair strummed a
classical guitar. He stopped playing and watched me advance. The silence made the
jungle feel bigger. He pointed to a crackling skillet balanced at his feet. “Hojaldras,” he
said.
 
We sat and ate the fry bread together, tearing it with our fingers. After a while, I stood
and dug into my pocket. The man shook his head, gray dreadlocks shuffling over his
shoulders. I walked on, and the jungle swallowed up the sound of him. I marched
toward the inevitable beach, the place she had pointed to on the map last year. Sweat
ran into my eyes and down my cheeks.
 
The jungle swayed with ocean air. The beach was a long crescent, the sand full-moon
white. I sat and waited as the sun descended toward the ocean. The wind stacked
small piles of sand around my feet, my hands. Whitecaps raced and collided to fill
every empty space, but my heart was slow and steady. I finally retreated into the trees,
long shadow swallowed by myriad more. When I passed the hut, all was silent save
the swell of the jungle. I waved to nobody.
 
When I reached the dock, the water was glassy and dark. Beneath the pre-moon sky, a
flash of white quavered on the surface of the ocean. The tide had brought her back,
bobbing beside the garbage from that other shore. My breath moved in rhythm with
the sea. I looked up and found Deggy watching. He raised a hand and did not smile.
 
All around us, the gloaming. The photograph sank and resurfaced. Eventually, there
was no more reason to watch. Mosquitoes droned in my ear. I closed my eyes and saw
her there. I opened them and saw her there. Death is like sleep without the burden of
dreaming, she once said to me. The slack tide moved below without a sound.

Author Bio: Jad Josey is a writer from the central coast of California. His work has
appeared or is forthcoming in Glimmer Train, Palooka, Pithead Chapel, Jellyfish Review,
JMWW Journal, and elsewhere. Find him on Twitter @jadjosey or online at
www.jadjosey.com.