by Rachael Lambert (age 12)

The sea crashes angrily against the shore, swelling slate grey and aquamarine. It lashes the smooth pebbles, and throws up dark droplets of salt water. I stand on the shore, holding a piece of paper and a pen in my hand. My face is stinging from the biting wind and I watch the heavy, bruise-coloured clouds on the horizon.

Today is my last time here. I think of the train that will carry me inland to university. I take in the bay, etching every detail into my mind. Every mood of the sea is a key to unlock a memory.

“I challenge you to a paper boat race, Dad!” I yell.

He laughs. “All right. I’m coming.”

He picks up yesterday’s newspaper and follows me down to the shore. We each tear out a page and carefully fold it into a boat.

“Mine’s called Sea Eagle,” I tell Dad.

“Mine’s Dauntless,” he replies.

We float the boats in the surf, seeing whose can stay up the longest. It is wildly fun, splashing and shouting, while the boats bob up and down.

It is strange how much emotion this bay holds for me: joy and love, and yet such pain. My earliest memories are of watching the waves, my father’s strong, calloused hand gripping my small one. His gentle voice whispers in my ears:

“These are the waves, Christopher. They can be as soft as a spring breeze, but they can also be as deadly as the sharpest sword. Respect them.”

Dear Dad, 
It’s a stormy day. Tomorrow, I leave. I don't know for how long.

The memory hits me.

It is still dark. The wind is clawing against the windows. I wrap a quilt around myself and enter the kitchen. Dad is standing with Mum, her eyebrows knitted together with concern.

“Greg, can't you put it off for just a day?”  

“My dear,” Dad’s voice is soft. “I know the sea better than any man. No storm can harm me.”

“But–” Mum stops abruptly when she sees me and forces a smile, though her eyes are lined with worry. Dad pecks the top of her head affectionately and squeezes my shoulder before heading down to the bay with his nets. Clouds are gathering ominously on the grey skyline as my father untethers our small fishing boat, Wave Dancer. He starts the engine and raises his hand, a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

I remember the storm.

I’m curled in the bed, tears staining my face, clinging to Mum. Lightning rips apart the sky as thunder crackles and booms – a drumroll of doom. The sea has turned into a writhing mass of black water.

“He’ll be alright won’t he Mum?” I look at her with big eyes. She doesn’t reply; her eyes are fixed out the window, her face white as snow.

I suck in a breath sharply, pushing down the tears. I continue writing, pouring my emotion onto the paper.

I miss you every day. Why couldn’t you have listened to Mum? You who thought you knew the sea so well.

I feel the anger burn. Was it his fault he left his twelve-year-old son alone and fatherless? It’s not fair. Never will be. But then, how could he have known the storm would be so bad and would come so soon? The anger is replaced by a heavy longing, a longing that makes me catch my breath.

I remember the aftermath of the storm. The strange and eerie calm. 

We are standing at the edge of the sea, waiting and waiting. I cling to Mum. We comb the shore, search all around the bay, as helicopters sweep across the sky searching for a lone man on his boat.

He was never found.

Two days later, the high tide had washed a familiar structure up onto the pebbles. The hull was battered and torn apart, the mast broken off. But on the side, I’d been able to make out the lettering. Wave Dancer. I screamed for Mum.

Newspaper reporters gather, snapping photographs. Curious locals peer over their shoulders. I want to yell at them all to go away; this is my dad’s boat.

We had no body to bury, but we put up a grave stone.

In remembrance of Gregory Smith,
A brave husband and loving father.
Lost at sea, October 2001.

“But God will redeem my life from the grave;
he will surely take me to himself.”
(Psalm 49:15)

Such an inadequate tribute to honour a life.

I will remember you forever Dad. I love the sea because of you. I pray that wherever you are, in whatever world you're in, this message will reach you. 
Love you,
Christopher

Blinking tears, I smooth out the letter then begin to fold it. It takes its shape; a small paper boat. I write the words, Wave Dancer on the side, then stand up stiffly. I wade out into the water and push the boat out. I watch, silently, as it floats softly out to sea.