My mother w as all hard cor ners . Her body was built like a tr iangle , with wide shoulder s and massive chest narrowing to bird thin legs and size extra small orange logger boots . Other mother s smelled of home baking or hand cream . My mother had this wonderful smell that was a combination of black seaweed and diesel fuel . On the rar e occasions when she w ould allow a kiss on her cheek , my lips afterwards tasted of salt water . She was a hand faller , a lumberjack ; she anchored us in coastal Br itish Columbia . A mother and a daughter moored amongst chainsaws and chewing tobacco .
Rogue Wave
by Jane Stevenson
My mother w as all hard cor ners . Her body was built like a tr iangle , with wide shoulder s and massive chest narrowing to bird thin legs and size extra small orange logger boots . Other mother s smelled of home baking or hand cream . My mother had this wonderful smell that was a combination of black seaweed and diesel fuel . On the rar e occasions when she w ould allow a kiss on her cheek , my lips afterwards tasted of salt water . She was a hand faller , a lumberjack ; she anchored us in coastal Br itish Columbia . A mother and a daughter moored amongst chainsaws and chewing tobacco .
She drowned on a rainy afternoon in March four years ago . She w ent out for one mor e run , collecting the rest of her crab pots fr om around Coste Roc k and intended to come straight back . She gave a silent farewell with a sharp nod of her head , oblivious to the rain tha t dripped off the tip of her nose . That day , in her boat , she had used her life jacket as a seat cushion and I watched for the last time as her yellow rain slicker bobbed out of view . I waited an hour . I wasn ’ t worried . The winds were fine and the tide was right . I just sat under the eaves out of the rain on a sideways turned jerry can and poked at our King Crab dinner still stirring in the salt-water pail .
But the sea soaked Stella Marie came in . The cold men pumped full of sur vival told of their nar row escape from a massive rogue wave . One cut the other off , their statements overlapping with adrenalin , “ Sea water right over the wheelhouse …” - “ I ain ’ t never seen anything like that …” - “ Our boat rolled like a whore but she came back up …” - “ Christ ! A wall of water higher than the City Centre Mall …”. One bristled jaw clacked shut after another as they realized I was waiting for someone .
They radioed Search and Rescue while I walked the docks in the rain . I watched the Douglas Channel . I wanted her boat to suddenly cut through the low clouds . I walked to the mar ina restaurant and rested my head against the hand scra wled ‘ Absolutely no f ’ ing cork boots !’ sign and reminded myself to breath . The waitresses inside huddled up and spok e to each other . They covered their sad mouths as if their efforts might somehow stop my panic as it crept up the back of my throat and burned my tongue .
I floundered for hope and imag ined mom appearing , her boa t thumping the crest of the waves , cutting her engine as she approached the dock ; she would tie an easy doc k knot and sa y something sassy to the Search and Rescue men , like , “ What ’ s the occasion boys , you guys finally figure out to put the toilet sea t down ?” But my hope sank .
I waited for the crac kle of her incoming call on the radio while fast moving men in soaking rain gear rustled up a rescue party out of the random collection of fishermen near the marina . They pointed thick fingers on laminated maps , yelled directions and radio frequencies , and used their gaffs to push their v essels out fr om the docks . Their boats pulsed over the waves and I felt the chill of her death settle on my surface — the cold weight of it pushed the breath out of my lungs . I just knew . That was it . I knew my mother was gone .
They found her empty boa t that night , half submerged , rocking on the waves and held up on the shores of Summit Bay , cradled around the canop y of fragrant cedar boughs .
That rogue wave must have surprised her . Knocked her and those homemade crab r ings straight into the frigid Pacific . I imagine she was hauling lines with her calloused hands , her broad back to the huge w all of approaching salt water . I can feel her sharp shock from the push over the edge . The icy water must have filled her boots and frozen her thin limbs . I can see my mother sink like the anchor that she was .
The ocean floor holds her . The steady pulse of the salty sea must have rounded all her hard corners smooth .
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