Chapter 20: The Water Operation
By Allen Frost
Sam Samsara was in a rowboat again. The oars were stowed and he leaned over. The small boat tipped dangerously as he stared past the glassy surface swerve. The high tide floated him over his car sunk shoulders in the sand below. A flight of sticklebacks flecked across the shining silver submarined hull. It seemed a peaceful part of the sea, there were weeds and anemones already waving to it.
With slow unreeling, Sam let an anchor line descend through the green. He had to scull an oar to catch the car’s bumper on the second try. He pulled; it was tight; he let the line unloop around the oarlock to keep it caught while he rowed back to shore.
The bow hushed up onto the sand. Sam stepped out trailing the lasso. It cut a taut trail back to the ocean.
George had already drifted from the scene at the beach. He didn’t feel like watching elephants pull a waterlogged car, he was busy wondering. It occurred to George that he hadn’t slept for a long time…Had he? He felt warm in the glow of the climbing sun of another new day. Then he darkened with the breaking thought—what if he was sleeping right now? What if this was a dream, how could he know? This world seemed as real as a dream. These worries carried him away from Sam and the elephants and the water operation.
He left soft footprints in the sand like the invisible man fading from view across a thin white layer of London snow. By the time he passed around the rocky bend of the cove, he was a mile away. The city showed itself across the bay. Gray barrage balloons made buttons in the sky. The war was started. He wandered on to the next beach holding the soldier in the bag. He stopped when he remembered and looked inside.
“You okay?”
“Sure.”
“What are you thinking about?” George asked him casually.
The soldier didn’t worry over words, “I’m thinking about what will happen when I’m back. Look what’s left of me…How am I supposed to be when I go home? Mister, my mind is going a hundred miles an hour thinking.”
“I know,” George said. His eyes were on the distance too. “Do you mind if I take a walk to that pier way over there?”
“No. Go ahead.”
That was all they said for a while along the high tide chalk mark. Like a strange two-headed machine steam powered by hundreds of thoughts, George followed the washed up flotsam, ribbon bits of weed, beautiful stones shining wetly in sand, shells, bird prints and odd remnants of man-made things.
Each time George looked up from his feet, the dock materialized closer and clearer as if it was building itself. It had the look of something that was built very swiftly. It leaned crooked angles, there were boards missing, light shone through its planks like a rickety piano keyboard.
“There’s someone out there at the very end,” the soldier said. His head was half out of the doctor’s kit bag so he could see.
George nodded. He switched the bag to the other hand.
“Woahh!”
“Sorry. My hand’s getting sore,” George said. He was curious to see what the silhouette on that cartoon dock was doing. He wasn’t expecting to know who it was, but he did.
It was Cornelius Barter playing his trumpet to the sea.
“Look at that,” said the soldier.
George was. Cornelius Barter was actually playing directly into the ocean, the bell of the trumpet had a microphone wire fishing underwater. George didn’t want to be a disturbance, so he stopped near the rocky shoreline.
The water was hopping around the microphone wire. At first George thought the bubbles and chop were from the sound and trumpet air. But he soon realized there were hundreds of thrashing fish. It reminded him of a summer a long time ago when he was out in the woods and he heard the ecstatic water slapping of those carps in the lagoon. The fish had gone lovestruck or something. Maybe he was playing in a particular key that caused such a reaction in that species of fish, George noted. It’s certainly a possibility, George yawned. He looked for somewhere to lay down for just a minute.
Beyond the fish, the ballad reached into darker and deeper water, in veils offshore where the cold current welled, a Japanese submarine drifted in riveted silence. Sailors crowded around the receiving monitors while a reel to reel live recording was made for Imperial Broadcasting Services, to be pressed next week into long playing records labeled The Cornelius Barter Water Opera.
Sam Samsara was in a rowboat again. The oars were stowed and he leaned over. The small boat tipped dangerously as he stared past the glassy surface swerve. The high tide floated him over his car sunk shoulders in the sand below. A flight of sticklebacks flecked across the shining silver submarined hull. It seemed a peaceful part of the sea, there were weeds and anemones already waving to it.
With slow unreeling, Sam let an anchor line descend through the green. He had to scull an oar to catch the car’s bumper on the second try. He pulled; it was tight; he let the line unloop around the oarlock to keep it caught while he rowed back to shore.
The bow hushed up onto the sand. Sam stepped out trailing the lasso. It cut a taut trail back to the ocean.
George had already drifted from the scene at the beach. He didn’t feel like watching elephants pull a waterlogged car, he was busy wondering. It occurred to George that he hadn’t slept for a long time…Had he? He felt warm in the glow of the climbing sun of another new day. Then he darkened with the breaking thought—what if he was sleeping right now? What if this was a dream, how could he know? This world seemed as real as a dream. These worries carried him away from Sam and the elephants and the water operation.
He left soft footprints in the sand like the invisible man fading from view across a thin white layer of London snow. By the time he passed around the rocky bend of the cove, he was a mile away. The city showed itself across the bay. Gray barrage balloons made buttons in the sky. The war was started. He wandered on to the next beach holding the soldier in the bag. He stopped when he remembered and looked inside.
“You okay?”
“Sure.”
“What are you thinking about?” George asked him casually.
The soldier didn’t worry over words, “I’m thinking about what will happen when I’m back. Look what’s left of me…How am I supposed to be when I go home? Mister, my mind is going a hundred miles an hour thinking.”
“I know,” George said. His eyes were on the distance too. “Do you mind if I take a walk to that pier way over there?”
“No. Go ahead.”
That was all they said for a while along the high tide chalk mark. Like a strange two-headed machine steam powered by hundreds of thoughts, George followed the washed up flotsam, ribbon bits of weed, beautiful stones shining wetly in sand, shells, bird prints and odd remnants of man-made things.
Each time George looked up from his feet, the dock materialized closer and clearer as if it was building itself. It had the look of something that was built very swiftly. It leaned crooked angles, there were boards missing, light shone through its planks like a rickety piano keyboard.
“There’s someone out there at the very end,” the soldier said. His head was half out of the doctor’s kit bag so he could see.
George nodded. He switched the bag to the other hand.
“Woahh!”
“Sorry. My hand’s getting sore,” George said. He was curious to see what the silhouette on that cartoon dock was doing. He wasn’t expecting to know who it was, but he did.
It was Cornelius Barter playing his trumpet to the sea.
“Look at that,” said the soldier.
George was. Cornelius Barter was actually playing directly into the ocean, the bell of the trumpet had a microphone wire fishing underwater. George didn’t want to be a disturbance, so he stopped near the rocky shoreline.
The water was hopping around the microphone wire. At first George thought the bubbles and chop were from the sound and trumpet air. But he soon realized there were hundreds of thrashing fish. It reminded him of a summer a long time ago when he was out in the woods and he heard the ecstatic water slapping of those carps in the lagoon. The fish had gone lovestruck or something. Maybe he was playing in a particular key that caused such a reaction in that species of fish, George noted. It’s certainly a possibility, George yawned. He looked for somewhere to lay down for just a minute.
Beyond the fish, the ballad reached into darker and deeper water, in veils offshore where the cold current welled, a Japanese submarine drifted in riveted silence. Sailors crowded around the receiving monitors while a reel to reel live recording was made for Imperial Broadcasting Services, to be pressed next week into long playing records labeled The Cornelius Barter Water Opera.
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