SOPHIE ELAN spent a couple seasons as a cook and deckhand, purse-seining for salmon in Southeast Alaska. She lives in Port Townsend, WA.
WRITINGS
The Weight of Scales
You saw her once. She flashed her back at the surface. A glimpse of scales churning the
water. She climbed aboard and sat on the bulwarks with you and the boys. You handed her an
almost-cold can of Rainer. Tiny golden bubbles tumbled down the side of her wide lips. Her tail,
the colors of an oil-slick puddle. Pinks and greens and yellows cascading suddenly to a murky
darkness when she moved. She told fantastic jokes and possessed a perkiness of parts one
could only achieve from a lifetime spent in salt water.
She left as quickly as she came. In port, people came by to congratulate you. They
wanted to hear how and where and why. Your captain retold her jokes to anyone who’d listen,
but lacking the same ease and delivery, the laughter came on in sputters and starts. An old
engine starting. Everyone just wanted her back.
You scoured the boat for the dry scales she had left behind. You found some adhered to
the hallway walls and a crispy one that snowflaked out of your boot. They sat weightless in your
palm.
Somewhere you read that the more you revisit a memory the less truthful it becomes.
Maybe that’s where she was born. She hatched from an egg of hyperbole and glinting eyes.
She nursed on the salt spray in unkempt beards and reached adolescence in the pubs where
rum spilled dark and sticky on the counter. Her breasts emerged happily. They grew larger the
farther ships were from port, from women, and wives.
She was gratefully accepted among the non-fisherfolk. For only a enigmatic beauty like her could explain it all. Those far-away looks. That relentless nostalgia.
And that deep, deep, deep, unknowable longing.
________________
Greenhorn
I’m on a boat. And the boat is moving. Not in a sunshine let’s go sailing bon voyage into
the glassy blue kind of way. More like a teetering drunkard riding a palsied horse over sand
dunes. It’s a perfect storm. It’s a “What the hell did I sign up for?” kind of way. I watch bowls
slide across the galley table. Pause. Slide to the other side. My first day on the boat. No, my first
two hours on the boat and already we’re going down. I’ll never see Alaska. Never hold a salmon
in my hands. The faucet dribbles as we list hard to starboard. The saliva in my mouth won’t quit.
Frothy salt like the spray at the windows. Sky sky horizon water water horizon sky sky. I picture
the faded red neoprene of the survival suits stowed on the flying-bridge. The stiff zippers with
white wax flaking from their teeth. The Gumby claws, the yellow whistle, the waterproof
flashlight attached to the chest. I put the suit on in my mind. I think of all the new words I’ve
learned in the last month: muster, EPIRB, hydrostatic release. The old vinyl of the seat cushion
sticks to the small of my back. I’m sweating. Sticky garlic suffocates my fingertips. Laughter and
footsteps sound above me. The others are oblivious, clearly. Like the flight attendant handing
out a plastic cup of orange juice while the engine is on fire and oxygen masks dangle from
above. I keep chopping vegetables. A stupid carrot. An onion that blurs opaque on the cutting
board. I swallow hard as my captain see-saws through the galley, laughing. Why. Is. Everyone.
Laughing? I can’t be found out. The lone sane person privy to the earth’s imminent demise. That
asteroid. That incurable zombie virus that will kill us all. I’ll just pretend it’s all normal, all par for the course.
I chop vegetables. Lunch is ready. Water water horizon sky sky.
You saw her once. She flashed her back at the surface. A glimpse of scales churning the
water. She climbed aboard and sat on the bulwarks with you and the boys. You handed her an
almost-cold can of Rainer. Tiny golden bubbles tumbled down the side of her wide lips. Her tail,
the colors of an oil-slick puddle. Pinks and greens and yellows cascading suddenly to a murky
darkness when she moved. She told fantastic jokes and possessed a perkiness of parts one
could only achieve from a lifetime spent in salt water.
She left as quickly as she came. In port, people came by to congratulate you. They
wanted to hear how and where and why. Your captain retold her jokes to anyone who’d listen,
but lacking the same ease and delivery, the laughter came on in sputters and starts. An old
engine starting. Everyone just wanted her back.
You scoured the boat for the dry scales she had left behind. You found some adhered to
the hallway walls and a crispy one that snowflaked out of your boot. They sat weightless in your
palm.
Somewhere you read that the more you revisit a memory the less truthful it becomes.
Maybe that’s where she was born. She hatched from an egg of hyperbole and glinting eyes.
She nursed on the salt spray in unkempt beards and reached adolescence in the pubs where
rum spilled dark and sticky on the counter. Her breasts emerged happily. They grew larger the
farther ships were from port, from women, and wives.
She was gratefully accepted among the non-fisherfolk. For only a enigmatic beauty like her could explain it all. Those far-away looks. That relentless nostalgia.
And that deep, deep, deep, unknowable longing.
________________
Greenhorn
I’m on a boat. And the boat is moving. Not in a sunshine let’s go sailing bon voyage into
the glassy blue kind of way. More like a teetering drunkard riding a palsied horse over sand
dunes. It’s a perfect storm. It’s a “What the hell did I sign up for?” kind of way. I watch bowls
slide across the galley table. Pause. Slide to the other side. My first day on the boat. No, my first
two hours on the boat and already we’re going down. I’ll never see Alaska. Never hold a salmon
in my hands. The faucet dribbles as we list hard to starboard. The saliva in my mouth won’t quit.
Frothy salt like the spray at the windows. Sky sky horizon water water horizon sky sky. I picture
the faded red neoprene of the survival suits stowed on the flying-bridge. The stiff zippers with
white wax flaking from their teeth. The Gumby claws, the yellow whistle, the waterproof
flashlight attached to the chest. I put the suit on in my mind. I think of all the new words I’ve
learned in the last month: muster, EPIRB, hydrostatic release. The old vinyl of the seat cushion
sticks to the small of my back. I’m sweating. Sticky garlic suffocates my fingertips. Laughter and
footsteps sound above me. The others are oblivious, clearly. Like the flight attendant handing
out a plastic cup of orange juice while the engine is on fire and oxygen masks dangle from
above. I keep chopping vegetables. A stupid carrot. An onion that blurs opaque on the cutting
board. I swallow hard as my captain see-saws through the galley, laughing. Why. Is. Everyone.
Laughing? I can’t be found out. The lone sane person privy to the earth’s imminent demise. That
asteroid. That incurable zombie virus that will kill us all. I’ll just pretend it’s all normal, all par for the course.
I chop vegetables. Lunch is ready. Water water horizon sky sky.
