Member's Winter 2025 Writing Cometition

     I lean on the rail near the stern, entranced by the drops of water flung into the air. A line from a Jacobean play I saw once comes to me: What’s that threw sparkles in my eye? It describes this moment perfectly. To anyone watching, this scene would seem like a romantic moment: a couple of seniors on the deck of a leisure craft, caught in the golden light of sundown. Like an advertisement for a retirement fund.

      ‘Shoal of dolphins,’ says Kerry. ‘Look.’

      ‘School, not shoal.’

      ‘I can’t say a bloody thing without you jumping down my throat!’

     He thumps his fist on the rail, punctuating the stressed syllables. As if in response, the boat lurches and rocks, and a splash of cold water slaps my face for my sins. He said ‘shoal’ deliberately, so I’d correct him. His face is tight with resentment, and he turns away. Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut?

     One day I’ll do something to really annoy him.

     Another wave, and the boat tilts sharply. My hand slides along the rail, coming to a halt at one of two red life rings attached to the rail. The impact jars my wrist.

     I don’t get out often nowadays. There’s always a cost. I was having lunch with my daughter-in-law one day last year and Kerry mucked up his midday medication, took the wrong pills and sent his blood pressure through the roof. He rang me, gasping from the couch. I had to call an ambulance from the restaurant. He only ventured out today because this boat trip was a wedding anniversary gift from our son and his wife. I picture a set of twelve five bar gates carved into a cell wall.

     The last time we went anywhere together, on the way to our destination, I’d needed to go to the toilet. We drove by a public toilet block, but Kerry wouldn’t stop. I was in tears. It wasn’t until I was about to wet my pants that he finally pulled over. I had to squat in the gutter behind the open passenger door and hope nobody walked past.

     I go to the side of the boat and untie the red life ring from the rail; it takes some effort and my wrist twinges as I twist the rope. Water gleams on the deck. The dolphins bob smoothly up and down like horses on a fairground carousel. There are plenty of yachts on the water; they look like bunting strung across the harbour.

     ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’  Kerry stamps his foot in the familiar gesture of impatience that he’s used to intimidate me for 60 years. I slip the ring over my head, quickly pull my arms through, and clamber awkwardly up onto the railing. In my mind, I hear David Bowie: Like the dolphins, like dolphins can swim. Kerry lunges but he’s nowhere quick enough, not these days.

     I leap.