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The Family Business

by Tyrel Murri

The callused hands moved methodically, elicit of the ocean currents they navigated. As careful as a surgeon’s, they moved in and out, weaving a hexagonal web multiplied hundreds and thousands of times. The daily chore had taken its toll out of the old fisherman, but despite the arthritis setting in and the failing vision, chiseled experience continued to produce the lifesaving masterpiece, much like the honeycomb from a hive of bees. The pescador used the thickest fishing line a few pesos could afford from the old neighborhood colmado on the corner. The same little shop’s owner had even given him a discount, barely allowing what was needed to supply the 40 square-foot net. Without a good harvest of fish, the next repair would have to last until another week.

On the outskirts of the tiny coastal town of Monte Cristi overlooking the vast Caribbean sea to the north, the man sat on a gnarled three-legged stool built from wood salvaged from a retired yola, nestled between two large mango trees. The fisherman’s new yola had been left to him by his late uncle, who had recently moved on to the place where fishing was no longer needed. The little boat had its share of leaks, but managed to fend off the hungry ocean well enough to stay afloat.

The trees arched away from each other, forming a perfect place for a number of nets to hang. Many would find the location ideal for a hammock, but those same many were not forced to use each spare moment for survival. Each day the fisherman had to repair more than a dozen holes, made from the constant struggle of life from beneath the turquoise green. If there were more holes than this, the net was scrapped, with only the best corner being kept to restart anew. Hour after hour was spent in the shade when the fish were sleeping, not wanting to be caught. It was a tedious job, but a required one none the less.

A dry breeze made its journey from the bustling cities of the south, escaping for a much needed vacation to the warm Caribbean waters. Its hurry literally created a cloudy highway through the sky, swerving with the flow of the dry air. The old fisherman monitored these “travelers”, taking note that the next few days would most likely be wet; a nice change from the unusually dry summer.

The man's son ran out of the one room hut, carrying the town's only Louisville Slugger, in his left hand, and a well-worn Spalding leather baseball mitt in his right. He flashed a brilliant smile in contrast to his deep black skin, then ran off to the nearby diamond, dreams rising like clouds off of a warm current. He wore an old pair of baseball pants he had found at a flea-market the Haitians held near the north border. Nearly a month later after the treasured purchase, he found a pair of unused Nike cleats, fresh to mold to his size 11 feet. Part of the left sole was sewn just slightly awkward to the left, convicting the shoe a defect from the factory before ever reaching store shelves. The simple mistake by some unknown worker on the other side of the world could possibly provide the tiny edge the boy would need to buy his own pair from someone other than an illegal immigrant.

His arms and upper body showed the harsh effect of many years on the yola, but had also left him with a low-90's fastball. As he made his way to the city’s prized patch of watered grass, he massaged his left bicep, warming up the critical muscle.

Any Dominicano knew that a left-handed pitcher had a chance in Los Grandes Ligas. The signing bonus alone could pay for a new home—a new life—even one deep in the Capitol, or at least Santiago. The town had been electrified when news washed up about one of the United State's baseball teams, the Florida Marlins, sending a scout to their small village. The old fisherman tried to hide his joy, hoping to keep his son's expectations down. Inside, however, he cried to Santa Maria, hoping the Virgin would allow even a small bit of Grace to bless their humble family. He had once hoped his son would stay in school, and possibly even go to Santiago to the University. The hopes never materialized into reality, since like his father, the son dropped out of school helping on the seas during the morning and night, and playing beisbol during the afternoon's. Despite using up valuable energy, the old fisherman allowed his son to play, praying it was an investment rather than a gamble.

Nearly fifty years earlier, another young boy left his class in the secondaria to join his father on the sea. He was never able to go back to an official school, yet out in the open, lessons of life were taught, educating the boy and allowing him to survive. Despite his low reading capacity, or lack of scientific knowledge, the town now revered the man as the professional that he was. He knew the sea, knowing the names of the currents that brought the village's economy. Little else was offered as a livelihood, and for over three generations, his father and grandfathers had continued the family business. The fisherman thought of his son and hoped that today would end this suffering.

Daylight began to fade as the net was nearing completion. The old fisherman cut open a knot, and retied the fishing line securing the previously weak area. Between each new hexagon, the man glanced up anxiously down the dirt path leading away from his home. After time, a silhouette faded into view. The man slowly rose from his stool and waited for his boy to arrive. As the young man crept closer, his bat rested on his shoulder, the mitt hanging from its base. He made his way towards the candle-lit home. He felt the concerned gaze of his father, took a deep breath, then approached him. The boy's shoulders raised, then dropped, followed by his lowering head. Enough had been said. The fisherman pulled the boy into his arms, embracing him. His eyes remained dry. His education had prepared him for this. He took the bat and mitt, nodded toward the house, and followed his son inside. There was a great deal he needed to teach his boy about the family business.

It starts.

I'm starting a blog. I think. I really don't have time to do this, but against my other options, I'd rather do this. So, since I'm going to do this the rest of my life, I guess I might as well start.

So, to you, my unknown audience, here I go.