The Cacographer

There is more to this picture than the obvious, I suppose. Yes, there’s the man standing by the rail on the port side, hand to his mouth like he should be smoking a cigarette and slouching. He’s old, hair thinning beside his heavy glasses, and he has to wrap himself in a dark sweater and thick khaki’s to keep the sea spray from seeping into his flesh. I wonder about him. Is he sick or just worried about something, about his wife who’s no where to be seen and may not exist? Maybe he’s just regretting too much vinegar with his fish, or he hates the sea, this boat. Always hated it. It’s possible he could be having the best time he’s had since the long ago poker nights with the lads in his tavern in Glasgow, if only he could forget about losing that bar to mortgages and angry women.
Or, more generally, there’s more to say about this picture than the center, more to the subject than the unnoticed ecstasy in the middle. There’s something to be said about everyone on this steel ship, surrounded by grey water that looks less forgiving than the steel podium where the captain or some other man of confidence rests his arm, looking out toward land or sea. As I circumnavigate the picture, I take my eyes from person to person, captured in this moment where it seems no one, except the subject, is happy.
There’s a woman in the lower left hand corner crowned in black hair that blends into the back ground, making her hair’s boundary invisible. She, other than the center couple, is the only one who appears to be enjoying herself. She not smiling, not quite, but there’s a certain gentleness to her level mouth, as though she’s just enjoying, quietly. The birds, those gulls that cry as they glide on invisible currants, don’t distract her. She follows one for a moment, switches to another, and doesn’t think. She doesn’t imagine them tearing at the food, she doesn’t think that the approaching beach is full of glass or that the pebbles are particularly sharp right off the jetty. She doesn’t think about the ice cream people on the beach will be eating despite the chill, she doesn’t think about the young man with his book open, also watching the gulls. She just sits, her chin on her sweatered elbow and lets the boat drift towards land.
Behind her is a man with a confused and annoyed expression beneath his knitted cap, looking beyond her, clearly unsettled. He holds his cane in his hand, maybe a bit afraid of what the haphazard boat might do his bones. Like all old men on outings, he’s well dressed, his tie matching his vest, and his jacket dark against his shoulders. He hasn’t been this far out from Edinburgh in his entire life, and frankly, he thought that now was starting a bit late. But, he’s a proud man, and his tie is straight and neat, and Cecily told him he had to come out to see her, that this was important. He didn’t necessarily mind crossing the sea to see his newborn grandson; it was a small price to pay to catch youth in his fading years. But the waves were stronger than he remembered, and these new people, this new generation, he just couldn’t understand their fierceness, their need to be first in line. He didn’t understand why they didn’t move for him, or why his pace was so infuriating to them. He was worried that when he got off the boat, he would be lost, and he was worried that despite his neatly buttoned vest that ran a direct line to his tie, that he would need help. And he was worried that no one would give it to him.
He doesn’t look at anyone, and is no one else does either, except the center two, something I suppose that gives more power to their interlaced fingers and his arm across her side. The captain, all certainty and arrogance, doesn’t look at his passengers any more than the old man who looks like he should be smoking looks at the dark haired woman watching the gulls. Not even the attractive youth in white who looks like a more blue-collar version of JFK is watching for girls. His eyes, like most of the passengers’ eyes, are on the beach, on the destination. He, too, looks worried. There is something waiting for him there, unknown and unimportant to everyone else on the boat. Like everyone else, he’s waiting for something between the grey sky and the grey sea.
It’s only the couple in the middle that no one sees but us who stays within the boundaries of the photograph. His face hidden beneath his dark curls and the shadow of his cheek line, he leans his kiss into her forehead. With her eyes closed in heart breaking joy, leans back without smile and loves him. I can think of nothing more beautiful than these two lovers, entwined and invisible among the crowd, forgetting the ship, the beach, two so close they’re acting as one with no thoughts under the sky, caught in an old photograph at the very moment that they could be no more present in the moment.
Everyone else got off the boat. The old man made it to Cecily without any problems and met his grandson. He decided to stay with them, and only returned to Edinburgh in a casket. The man who looked like JFK didn’t remember the trip at all, and never told anyone about it once a week had passed. The old man with the glasses who looked like he should be smoking never got on a ship again, and told his wife repeatedly of the ‘hellish journey,’ and she smiled and continued crocheting while he drank scotch and thought of poker. The women with the ethereal hair continued on with life, but never forgot the boat ride, and whenever possible, took a break from her publishing job and rode the ship roundtrip. She never got off when the boat landed across the straight, and simply sat, watching the gulls until the boat returned her to her original soil again. The couple, however, is still there, always will be there. Her hair will always be blonde and full, and his head will always be buried in her hair, and they will always be in love, long after everyone else has died and been born.