Soul of the Sea

By L. Joseph Shosty

I made my first trip to Rathby's Isle when I was six months old. A business trip, my father told me, that had netted him a goodly sum. I suspect he was right; he was always on a business trip in those days. Somehow, even during the Depression when others lost everything, my father continued to prosper. Several of his peers joked that he'd sold his soul for prosperity. I used to find that a perverse notion. Knowing what I do now of strange pacts and deals I have to wonder.

He never mentioned the violent storm that wracked the island the weekend of our first visit. For two days and three nights, gale winds pummeled the tiny speck of land, and heavy rains flooded us in. Likewise, he never mentioned he had to pay a boat captain nearly five hundred dollars, a princely sum in those days, to take us back to the mainland. Nor did he tell me of how the terrible winds tossed us about, or how coupled with the rain and crashing waves the boat nearly shook apart. Frightful thing, that, and so it almost seems natural that he should neglect to mention the man who'd offered to buy me.

The man approached my mother in the evening of the second day as she clutched me tightly to her breast and watched the storm wreak havoc on the beach. I later discovered how strangely dressed he was, how in lace, frock coat, hose, and a powdered wig, he was a castaway to a time when the early Americas frothed in turmoil. He came to my mother and smiled like a proper gent, bowing and kissing her hand.

"Greetings, madam, and how are you this day?" he asked. I'm told he had an antiquated way of speaking that wasn't unlike the way Thomas Jefferson and his contemporaries wrote in their journals.

"Cold and wet," my mother replied with a laugh. She was the loveliest creature I have ever known. Her powers of motherhood made it such that she could bring a smile to the lips of even the sulkiest person, which was usually me, and her wit was quick like a fox. The strange man in the frock coat laughed with her, for my mother's good humor was also infectious.

"Well, I see you here watching the sea and was wondering if I might dance a friendly venture," he said.

"I'm married," my mother replied immediately.

"Not that, not that, Madame," the strange man said. "Though you are indeed quite beautiful your favor is not what I seek."

"What, then?" My mother was good-natured, true, but not naive. What had once been a harmless walking anachronism had swiftly became something approaching a threat. She took a step backward.

His words gave basis to her apprehension. "I would like to buy your son," the man said. He quoted her a price of a thousand quid, more, he added, than I was worth. "I assure you, madame, he will have a wondrous life. He will be well taken care of and assured a prosperous future, one where he will never want for a thing. In return I will have an heir, and you will have a tidy sum of money."

My mother ordered him away immediately, promising to call whatever resembled the authorities if he did not comply. The man bowed and apologized graciously, then moved away before she started yelling. My mother watched him saunter off, then stop by the front desk to speak to another. A man, unless I'm mistaken. When asked, my mother could not remember what he had looked like, but I have a feeling I know.

Don't ask me how I learned this. Certainly I could not have remembered it since I was only six months at the time, and my mother only offered what information she had when I trapped her with questions. The telling of how I came by such information would take too long to tell, and it's not the crux of my story. I will tell you how I know what he looked like, the man the strangely dressed gentleman spoke to after leaving my mother standing on the porch. He is an old man with a long, white beard, and a face brown and worn like old leather. He wears a hat with a red band, a white shirt and khaki trousers, all wrinkled like the skin on his face. I know this because I met him seven years later.

We returned to Rathby's Isle the summer of '37. My father's plans for the hotel where we'd stayed were coming to fruition. He and the owner planned to build a seaside resort there for the rich and wealthy that remained in America and Europe. Located so close to the Bahamas, Rathby's Isle was a tropical paradise, full of white sand beaches and lush forestland, perfect for strolling and playing and swimming. My father swore its exotic location and interesting history would carve a niche for itself in the tourist trade, and investors had flocked to his banner.

Mother and I were left to our own devices while Father hammered out the deal. So few knew of the hotel we practically had the beach to ourselves. Back in those days toys were made of real things like wood and iron. The mass-produced plastic things of today cannot capture the feeling of having a real shovel and pail to make castles in Rathby's sand. I worked tirelessly the first two days on my sandcastle. I was a thinker even then, and I knew enough not to build too close to the water lest the tide come in and ruin it. I was a hundred feet from the water's edge at low tide, and my castle survived everything else from wind to birds to my mother accidentally crushing a wall under foot. At the end of that second day I swore that it was the greatest creation under the sun, impenetrable and unstoppable in that it had faced such adversity and survived. My mother, being biased toward her only child, agreed. It stood nearly as tall as I, this castle, with six tall spires and a wall reinforced with sticks in case mother became clumsy again.

The third day the sky turned inky black, and cool winds whipped in along the waters and told us to run to the safety of the hotel. Lightning exploded across the sky, and the rains that came soon after drenched the land. I watched from our room on the third floor as the storm tore my beloved castle apart. I cried alone in our room while Father was away and Mother was having drinks with an investor's wife downstairs.

"Here, little man, enough of that."

The voice came from behind me, and I turned to see the old man standing in the doorway. I did as I was told, more out of shock than anything, and froze like a deer in headlights upon seeing the man who blocked my only means of escape.

"You're not supposed to be in my room while my parents are away," I said, pressing myself against the window frame.

"And a little man such as yourself shouldn't be crying. Come now, it's only a little rain." The old man took a step forward. I could see he was soaking wet, like he had been standing in the rain, laughing a madman's laugh at the sky, at God, at Nature. A strange thought for a child, I know, but it came nonetheless and terrified me. I began to shake.

"My castle's ruined, sir," I replied.

I must have looked like I was about to bolt because he said, "Now, now. Mustn't get too upset. I know I look rough, but I mean you no harm." To illustrate he made a funny face like a circus clown. I relaxed a little.

"Thank you, sir."

"Ah, such manners," he said, beaming. "Son, I've come here because you're special. I've been watching you; I know you. I want to give you something special as well." I looked at him quizzically, and he said, "I want to give you the sea. A man once gave it to me, and I have enjoyed it for a long time now. Now the time has come for me to move on to other things."

"Can't you do these things while you own the sea?"

The man chuckled. "Goodness, no. Making the tides roll in at the right time, seeing to it that the fish are plentiful and healthy, maintaining the plants and soil with rains, these things take time. Most important among my jobs, though, is knowing when to make the storms go away." His eyes twinkled as he said this.

"You could make the storms go away?"

"No," he said, "but you can if you just shake my hand and call it a deal."

"I don't want to."

"Why not?" he asked, growing agitated. "You could stop the storms with a blink of an eye, and all the little boys on this island could run outside to play again. There'd be hundreds--no, thousands!--of sandcastles lining the island. Any storm that wanted to come along would think twice before attacking such a strong defensive position. Now, come on! What do you say?"

I thought about what he said. "I thought you said I would be busy all the time."

"Ah, but you would be! The sea is a beautiful place indeed, but it takes hard work to keep it beautiful. It would be the perfect place for a listless boy like yourself to learn industry."

"Then if I'm busy all the time how could I make sandcastles?"

"What?" His cheeks flushed with anger, and he started toward me. "Now look, you, take my bloody hand and shake it, there's a good fellow. Tell me you want to rule the sea so I can get out of here. Here!" He thrust his hand at me. "Take it."

I used the only weapon I had as a seven year-old boy; I screamed at the top of my lungs. The hotel detective was sure to be downstairs, but someone would hear and come running. The old man knew this and recoiled. He was still angry, but he was also frightened. He backed through the door, and his head darted left and right. In a pause between screams I heard him say, "You'll see me again." With that he was gone, and the storms rolled back into the sea three hours later.

Mother and Father never believed me when I told them. They said I was imagining things. When I think back they must have known I was telling the truth, but they did not want to frighten me further. But it was too late; I was frightened.

My first meeting with the old man was a defining moment for me. Afterward my precocious nature disappeared, and I withdrew into myself. I rarely spoke after that, and when I did I hadn't much to say. Often I would stare at the horizon and wonder if the storms would follow me wherever I went. They did not, and within a few years the memory and the fear faded. I would not see the old man again for another ten years.

I made few friends at school. Boys and girls alike clumped together, and I didn't fit in with any of them. My family's wealth was all that kept me from being an outcast. While I didn't belong to any one group it afforded me the ability to move amongst them and be generally accepted by all. I had one real friend, Edward. We made a great pair, for he was boisterous and I was quiet, studious. Other than that we had much in common. Our families were wealthy, we enjoyed Lord Byron, and we loved the cinema. Every Saturday we took in a matinee. Most boys and girls went to the fright fests. We went to see the real films; the comedies, the dramas, and the 20^th Century Fox war films. We critiqued them as we watched and tore them apart afterward at the soda shop, and every conversation inevitably turned toward how one day we would make wonderful films. I wanted to write, Edward wanted to direct. We would make the ultimate filmmaking team, he said.

"We'll blow Hollywood off the map, Ben," he said over his Coke float.

When Edward and I graduated high school Father offered to send us on a trip to the Rathby's Isle resort for a week as a graduation gift. Time had dulled the memory of the strange old man, and I jumped at the idea. A week later we were off on the Santa Lucia, a wealthy cruise liner that made a stop there on its way to the Bahamas. We would stay a week then fly back to the mainland.

Besides Edward and myself a few others we knew from school came along. Among them was Edward's girlfriend, Glenda. Edward always seemed to a have a girl by his side. Glenda was the only one in a long line, but I always felt that she was the one he'd settle down with. I was right, too. They were married eight months later, and I was Edward's best man. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Glenda liked me, too. I guess she doted on me since I was alone, and she asked along her cousin Amelia to keep me company. Edward, though, had to add his own flair to the introductions.

"Frowner, I'd like you to meet Amelia Deerbrook, Glenda's cousin. Amelia, this is Frowner Ratcliffe."

"Ben, actually. Ben Ratcliffe. How do you do?"

"Pleased to meet you, Ben."

We shook hands. She was tiny, delicate. Beautiful. She smiled a row of perfect white teeth behind bright red lips. I think I was in love with her from that moment on.

"Well, enough of that," Edward said. He liked to keep control of everything, especially conversations. "Anyway, Amelia, Ben here is responsible for this little shindig. His father owns the island, you know."

Amelia's eyes shone like the sun. "Really?" she asked.

"Just the resort, actually," I replied as humbly as could be allowed. It took up most of the island now. Only it and the town to the west remained. Edward left us to our own devices after that and returned to the ballroom to dance with Glenda. Amelia and I stayed behind and dined together on the balcony.

"How long has your father owned Southern Cross?" she asked, referring to the resort.

"About ten years," I replied. Being alone with her made me nervous. I wanted to hide.

"You've been coming to Tonotonoga that long?"

I made a face. "That's not its real name, by the way." My hand was shaking, and I could barely hold my water glass still enough to sip from it. "At least it's not always been called Tonotonoga."

"Really?" She'd thus far seemed interested in whatever I had to say. She was flattering me, but from her it felt good.

"It used to be called Rathby's Isle, named for the Englishman who discovered it. The investors felt that the name sounded cold and bleak--like England, I'd imagine--and thought a name change was in order to attract tourists. My father and his partner had little trouble making the change since they own most of the land and employ almost all the island's inhabitants. The name isn't from the local dialect, either. I think it comes from a North American tribe near Wisconsin or Montana."

Amelia looked at me for a long time, her eyes wide with amazement. "You're very intelligent," she said quietly. This time I knew she wasn't using flattery. "I find that very enchanting." She moved her hand across the table until it covered mine. I looked down at our hands mingling, at the small bones of her fingers entwined in mine. "I hope I'm not being too forward," she said.

This was a moment of truth, and I knew it. I blurted, "Do you want to dance?" in a way that sounded like a drowning man calling for a life preserver.

"I'd love to," she said with another smile to make me die. I smiled, then, and wished my mother had been there to see it. We went inside, and on the way downstairs to the ballroom she took my hand and held it.

Outside the storms came.

By morning, the only power came from the emergency. Winds bent the trees to the breaking point, and rains pelted the ground and turned the golf course into a lake.

The others had holed up in their room or in the bar. Without a game of tennis to make his day, Edward was miserable. When he wasn't with Glenda he was lying about our rooms bemoaning his bad luck or cursing Mother Nature and Her sense of timing. Eventually tiring of my friend carrying on about bad weather, I shooed him away.

After all, I, on the other hand, was in love. No power meant candlelight dinners for Amelia and I. Being unable to go outside gave us an excuse to sit inside or hide away in some hidden nook. I stole more kisses into those two days than a master thief could steal precious gemstones in a lifetime of crime. The night before we were to go back I told her I loved her. She fell into my arms and wept. She told me she loved me, too, and we wept together.

The morning we were to leave the storm increased its violence. No planes would be leaving until the storm blew over, Father's partner told us. Edward was sulking in our room, Glenda and Amelia were in their rooms talking, and the rest of our friends were scattered throughout the hotel doing their own version of lamenting the situation. I was having breakfast by myself when the old man came to me.

"Been a while, hasn't it?" he said. I looked up from a two-week-old New York Times and found him standing in front of me, still wet from the rains and not looking a day older than the day he'd first terrified me. "You do remember me, don't you?"

"Vaguely. You seem to know me."

"Indeed. So, are you ready to talk business?" A sliver of annoyance cut me when he sat without invitation.

"I'm afraid you'll have to refresh my memory," I replied. "I believe I was a little boy when we last met."

"Right again. You'll recall, I think, that I wanted to give you the sea."

"The sea," I repeated. "What an odd notion. Why the hell would I want it?"

"Because the sea would be yours to command. All the fish would dance to your whim. The tide would be yours to rise and fall when you deem fit. And think of the nights beneath the waves with that lovely creature Amelia. I assure you, you could show her delights there that would hold her to you for an eternity."

"I don't know," I said. Actually I did know. I knew the old man was insane, but I thought I would humor him.

"Don't think of yourself, then, or of your lovely. Think of your friends! Shake hands with me now and take the sea from me. You can roll back the storms so they can return safely to the mainland."

"I think my answer is no, my friend," I said.

"But why?" Again came the flush to his cheeks as it had ten years ago. He was angry and breathing hard.

"Because if I owned the sea I could never go home, and home is where I want to be. I start at Princeton in the fall, my father wants to give me a job when I've graduated, and my life is full of hope now. There are possibilities. And I don't need the sea to win Amelia's heart; I've already got it. She loves me, and I love her."

"And what of your friend, Edward?" the old man blubbered, growing redder with each passing moment.

"He'll live. Now, if you'll excuse me my lady friend will be down any moment. I imagine you'd hate to explain your business with her."

"Perhaps I'll make the same offer to her," he shot back.

The thought of him making such a ludicrous offer to Amelia made my blood boil.

"I think you'd better leave."

"And indeed I will." He rose from the chair, and took his leave. The storms rolled back toward the horizon as quickly as they'd come, and we boarded our plane back to the mainland only two hours behind schedule.

I went to Princeton that fall. I wrote Amelia every day, and she did likewise. I went to North Carolina to her home as often as I could, and was full of gloom the rest of the time. Edward had come with me to Princeton, and was the rock that got me through my first year. While there, I chose academics as my drug of choice; he chose sports. He ran track until an injured knee ended his days as an athlete. By the next Spring he was married to Glenda, and we saw less and less of each other. I was forced to find other ways than movies and laughter to get through school, and so I threw myself even deeper into my studies.

Years passed. I graduated with my degree in business just in time to be drafted into the Korean War. Father's influence and my business training got me assigned to American headquarters in Seoul as a clerk. Edward was drafted as well, but because of his knee injury he was spared front line duty. He stayed in the rear, as it was called. His job as quartermaster kept us in touch regularly, and over a period of six months and countless correspondence we penned our first and only screenplay. Edward shipped me the complete manuscript in a package marked Classified, and I sent it to a movie studio in Hollywood.

Three days later I received word that Edward had been killed in a bombing by a North Korean terrorist faction. I felt empty inside, and for a while I wanted to die myself. My best and only friend had been taken from me, our dreams of Hollywood torn and burnt along with his corpse in a ditch somewhere fifty miles behind the front line. Then a letter arrived from Amelia, and I found a new reason for living. Glenda and Edward were of course married, and they'd had a child, Thomas. Glenda killed herself when she learned of Edward's death, and Amelia told me in the letter that she had taken Thomas to raise as her own. I thought of the woman I would go home to, who I would someday marry. And I thought of the orphan son of my dearest friend, and I fought hard afterward to go home alive, for their sakes.

I did, two years later. My tour ended as the war was coming to a close. I returned to thearms of my parents, to Amelia, and Thomas. Father gave me a job in his corporation, and I had enough money from my soldier's pay and my new salary to marry Amelia and begin buying a home. A year later Amelia and I officially adopted Thomas. I had a wife, a son I loved deeply, and a job. It was the American Dream come true for me.

My father and I grew close over the years that followed. Profits rose steadily through the McCarthy Era and into JFK's reign as President. Soon I became Father's right-hand. I oversaw several of our lesser projects, especially those in South America and the islands. One of those projects, a major one, was Southern Cross, still snuggled deeply in the subtropical forests of Tonotonoga, or Rathby's Isle.

I liked to handle some matters personally, a trait I'd taken from Father early in my life. In the Spring of '59 a change of hands sent me to Rathby's Isle for the third time in my life.

It was supposed to be a two-day trip. I arrived early in the morning and met with the new manager over lunch that same day. By afternoon everything was in order, and I had the rest of the day and the next to relax before returning home. By dinner the storms had turned a full-mooned night into a rage of black.

"We meet again, Ben," the old man said, and rudely made a place for himself at my table.

Years of business dealings had sharpened my wit and deepened my cynicism. "Well," I remarked with a sneer, "if it ain't the old man and the sea. By all means take a load off, codger. You look terrible."

"Have you thought about my offer?" he asked.

"Yes, and the answer's still no."

"But think of what you could do, Ben! Your father's import/export business, for instance. If you could control the sea you could make the weather favorable for your ships while calling up a storm to crush your rivals'."

"Hmm," I said mockingly, tapping my chin. Don Rickles was a favorite of mine, and I imitated him as best I could as I pretended to consider the answer before offering him a snotty, "No."

"You'll regret this," the old man snarled, rising.

"Look," I said, "Southern Cross is my responsibility now, so I'll be coming here from time to time. I would appreciate it if you didn't come to me with this hokey deal of yours every time I set foot on the sand." The old man spun on his heel and started away. I called out to him as he ducked through the exit, saying, "And take your fucking monsoon with you."

A year later, my thirtieth to be exact, was a strange year indeed. A letter arrived to my home in Miami from Universal Pictures in Hollywood. It was addressed to Edward Roth or Benjamin Ratliffe. The letter was a reply to our screenplay, five years after the fact. A young director had shown interest in making it, it said, and there were backers, too. In the years following Edward's death I had been to the cinema only twice. Movies no longer held magic for me anymore. I sent a letter in reply politely stating that I no longer cared to see the script transformed into the Great American Movie it could have been. I read years later that its name appeared in Burleigh's "100 Hundred Greatest Films Never Made" list. I think Edward would have liked that.

Also in that year, my father called me aside at a party so that we might speak in private.

"I'm dying, Ben," he said without preamble.

There was nothing to do but nod. I'd known for several months that something was seriously wrong with him. He was pale, drawn. His words were almost a relief, for I no longer had to pretend I didn't notice his increasingly gaunt face or forgetful gestures.

"I'll be turning over the company to you as soon as I'm able," he went on. "Your mother's a fine woman, but she's got no head for business, you see. I'd like to know everything's well taken care of when I go."

"I'll do my best," I replied. We hugged then, the first time we'd done so since I was little boy.

"Just think, you'll be one of the youngest corporate leaders in America," he said, and I swore I saw a tear glisten in his eye.

After I became president, my parents went into seclusion. I did not hear from them again until my mother informed me of my father's death seven months later. Mother followed a year and a half later from a stroke. God spared them the worst decade in American history.

Amidst the strife and destruction and sickening politics of the '60s, I watched my son grow up, my wife and I grow apart, and the business my father had worked so hard to build sliding away. Even in the wartime boom I was forced to sell off most of our South American holdings to cut losses. Thomas, following an argument with me about something I can't recall, joined the Army and went off to war. Amelia blamed me for that, and we didn't speak for a long time. I began seeing another woman. We never had sex, for Amelia was the one I loved despite our differences. I sought instead the companionship I'd so long had and needed from my wife. Those were strange days where I slept in the bed with the woman I loved and told all my thoughts and secrets to a woman who used me for the same reasons I used her. It went on that way, and this woman whose name I'll not mention was my rock until my world crumbled in 1975.

"It is with heavy heart that I inform you that your son, Thomas Gerald Ratliffe, Private 2^nd Class, was killed by enemy soldiers as American troops were pulling out of South Vietnam."

I'll never forget that letter, the words that tore away my heart. I left a hysterical Amelia at home, and I ran to beat out the devils in my head. I don't know how it happened, but somehow I ended up in a single engine plane to Rathby's Isle.

The storms came immediately. The old man must have smelt blood, for he was at my side within the hour. He came to me as I stared out my window, watching some boy's sandcastle be obliterated in the gale.

"My heart is dying," I said. "All I've got left is a woman who does not love anymore me and a kingdom with no heir, dying of suffocation. I won't be taking your offer today, either, old man, but be patient. I'll return."

I was wrong about one thing. Thomas' death did not kill the love between Amelia and myself. Instead, it made it stronger. When I returned, we clung to one another and found the old reasons for our love and new ones as well. We had no more children. It was too late in life, and Thomas' death left wounds too deep. We had each other, and that had to be--was--enough.

I did something then that I've never regretted. I sold off all my holdings, all my stocks, bonds, CDs, everything except Southern Cross and my shares in IBM. Amelia and I moved far away from the ugliness that was shaping the world after Vietnam to a place in the country where we could live and love with no servants or housekeepers or gardeners. We lived there throughout the greedy evil of the 1980s and approached strong the sixth decade of my life. Those years of peace healed as many wounds as could heal with time, and when I finally laid my beloved Amelia to rest on the eve of the Berlin Wall's collapse, a feeling of contentment and just a little sadness enveloped me. A chapter of my life had ended, and I boarded a plane for one final trip to Rathby's Isle.

I stood there on the beach even after the winds blew hard at the coast. I shielded my eyes at the stinging sand and waited for the old man to come one more time. When he did arrive we faced one another. There was no gaudy sales pitch this time or any bitter denials on my part. His face told me he knew my expression well. He'd probably worn the same look that day the strange man in the frock coat approached him with his bizarre offer of the sea. In a silence unbroken even by the storms he offered me his hand, and I took it, shaking firmly to close the deal. Without another word he seemed to drift away, and before he was dust, I turned and headed toward my new home.

Onward I walked to the surf, and the waves that crashed around could not hold me back. I cut cleanly through them until the water covered my legs, my chest, and finally my head. I breathed deep the sea, and suddenly I was wracked with instincts telling me to fight for the surface, for air. I killed those thoughts and continued to breathe. Water filled my lungs, and euphoria overtook me. I forced my legs to continue to move forward until finally I sunk to the bottom and died there. I became one with the sea.

A little boy sat in the sand with his plastic shovel and pail, hard at work on a castle of his own. I held back the tide even though the moon was saying to do otherwise. Pregnant clouds filled the sky, and the boy's mother told him to come inside before the storm hit. I didn't want things the way they had to be, but the island was choking on sand and Man. Id the skies a little and let the rain fall through; not the angry storms of my youth but gentle drops to replenish the soil. The land thanked me, and as I bowed, in came the tide to wash the boy's castle away. I'd struggled as long as I could, but Nature must have its way and sometimes even the master of the sea be damned.

The boy was heartbroken. He sat at the window and watched the destruction of his work. A tear worked its way down his cheek. I went to him then, an old man in slacks and a white shirt soaked from the rains. He stopped crying when he saw me, and his eyes filled with hope.

"Can you make the rain stop, sir? I want to build sandcastles."

"Of course, young man. Once the land is nourished I'll turn off the rains, and then you can build as many sandcastles as you like."

His smile beamed up at me, and he rushed forward to hug my leg. "Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome," I replied.

And I smiled.