The Rising Tide

The letter's been in my pocket nine hundred sixteen days. Heavier than the Yanmar's flywheel. Jenny read it aloud to the wind — wife, baby coming. That's not the part that cuts. It's that he wrote at all. After I left without saying. After the argument about the engine room fire he didn't start and I couldn't forgive. The wax seal's cracked from sweat and salt. I've burned worse things than letters.

The envelope hasn't moved. My thumb keeps finding the same spot on the wax — cracked, salt-etched. The Yanmar housing sits open on the bench behind me, impeller clear, but I haven't touched a wrench in twenty minutes. High tide's pushing damp air through the porch boards. Jenny's out there somewhere in the garden, ankle wrapped, humidity thick enough to drink. Seven days until the supply boat. Six days of antibiotics left. The letter's the only thing on this island that doesn't need fixing.

The handwriting's steadier than I expected. Three pages. He writes about the shop in Falmouth — took it over after Da died, the one with the cracked slab we used to hide cigarettes behind. His wife's name is Sarah. Baby's due in November. He names the coordinates of the shoal where I went over, like I'd forget. Like the sea needs coordinates. He doesn't ask me to come back. Doesn't ask for forgiveness. Just writes: *The water didn't take you. Don't let the island.* The ink's blurred at the bottom — rain, or tears, or the Bay of Biscay salt still on his fingers. Nine hundred sixteen days in my pocket. I've read it three times now and the words don't change.