Summertide

It was the late winter months that really bore down beneath his skin, past his bone, and into his marrow. Those were the hardest to sit through.

He couldn't work. The water was frozen. The air violent. The fish lay dormant, below the layers and layers of ice that had formed, sheltered from his assortment of hooks and traps. Protected from the bait that he'd drop behind his boat when he had rowed far out into the sea, hoping to pull them to the surface.

Everyone else had left - smart enough to get out before the snowdrifts pushed against their doors, blocked their windows from the sun. Occasionally the little fire that he had lit would be extinguished by the snow that was blown down the chimney. Those were the worst days. Wood was scarce at this time. Whatever was collected before the snowfall began was all one could survive on. It wasn't long until the cascading powder hid the rest.

There was no activity during these months.  He was one of the few to stay the entire year - either too proud or too stupid to go. A few others remained - but during these months, he wouldn't see them. Like himself, they were sure to be boarded up, waiting for the spring to thaw them out, free them from their bleak existence.

Spring would turn to summer. And that was his time

It was in the summer when he was out on the ocean everyday, bobbing up and down amongst the waves - nets dragging out behind his boat, catching his income and the dinners for those who had returned to the island. It was those months when the sun would beat down on his exposed back, like some sort of punishment, one that he would endure, making his skin dark and rough like weathered leather. His beard would grow out and become wispy, tangled within itself, as if each follicle had become lost at a party, meandering past the others, never sure which way to go - too drunk to find its way home. The salt from the ocean spray would cake his beard, creating a thin white layer to protect it from the rays of the sun. His hands would become rough. Worn from pulling in the lines - burned by the ropes if the sea took the nets too fast, yet still gentle enough to remove a hook from a fish's mouth without causing any pain.

As he sat there, huddled against the wall, he smiled, for the first beam of sunlight had found its way past the snowdrifts and fallen in the middle of the floor.

They were his months - those ruled by the sun and thankfully, it wouldn't be long until they arrived.