Two Stories by Tom Mahony
Smell of the Sea by Tom Mahony
“What’s that smell?” my son asked as we
walked along the sand.
“The smell of the sea, Laddie,” I said in my best salty brogue.
“The what?”“Kelp.” I pointed to the slippery brown piles near the high tide line. “Washed ashore by winter storms.”
The boy frowned. “It stinks. Let’s go home.”
“Ignore the smell and consider this. Kelp is like a forest under the sea. It grows two feet a day, changes the light and chemistry of the oceans, and provides food and shelter for countless animals. It dampens currents and chop, great for surfing. People use it in toothpaste and ice cream and tons of other things. It’s incredible stuff.”
The boy listened closely, eyes widening as he studied the kelp and nodded.
Then he turned to me. “It stinks. Let’s go home.”
Sitka Spruce by Tom
Mahony
He hiked to a massive Sitka spruce overlooking the Pacific. He rigged the ropes and scaled the tree. Near the top he unhooked himself, settled in a crook of branches, and waited.
Wind blew from the south, the first drops of rain. The weather map isobars were packed like spaghetti—biggest storm of the year. No worries.
He came here to escape the pointless monotony of life—the days that drably churned to weeks and months and years—and do something real. See what mattered. He didn’t care if he ever went home.
Afternoon brought gale force wind, the ocean shredded with whitecaps. Rain soaked the earth. The spruce swayed above the cliff.
Night fell. Wind howled, trees crackled, waves pounded on the cliff below. The storm ripped away his smug indifference and left him drenched, freezing, exhausted. He clutched the slippery bark in terror. This was a mistake. A horrible mistake. He wanted to climb down but it was impossible in the darkness.
His screams yielded to prayers and then a grim focus on each drop of rain and each gust of wind and the weird texture of it all.
The rain finally tapered at dawn. The wind shifted northwest, bitter cold. Spent and shivering, he slid down the ropes and trudged past the sorrel—washed brilliant green by rain—toward home.
Sweet home, every nook.
