The night that Pa left. The wind howled, and the hut that stood as a make-shift house rocked back and forth to the rhythm. The night that Pa left, I worried so bad. I worried so bad, I didn’t watch what I was doing. I speared myself with a fish hook, right in the thumb. The drop of blood stained my white apron.
The night that Pa left, I watched out the window for a sign of the small fish boat, rocking dangerously on the waves with no man for a driver. I tossed and turned that night and I didn’t sleep.
That night Pa had left on the fishing boat to get some dinner from the ocean.

Morning arose, and so did I. The sun rose over the distant hills, and I rose with it.
Maybe I shouldn’t have? The tattered fish boat sat on the sand, on the edge of the ocean. The nets were flung carelessly over the side, broken, torn in places.
And I ran, ran so fast. I got down the edge of the water, and felt the lovely sand on my bare feet. But none of that mattered anymore, I trudged through it like it was bog, weighing me down.
I reached the boat and flung myself on boat. It crumbled under my weight. Which isn’t much, hardly anything. And I stood, horrified, as I sucked into my brain the nagging words.
I couldn’t bear the say the words, ‘Pa isn’t here.’ But I did, saying them to the ocean, wide and soft. I repeated them, and allowed let myself let some anger into the way I said it.
“ Pa ain’t here.”
The water lapped at my toes, and I kicked it back, but it stayed where it was, soaking up the sand…
“ Pa ain’t here, you hear me?”
I screamed, and I collapsed on the sand. “ Wattcha done with Pa?” I know that any passerby would think that I was stark-raving mad. Maybe I was?
I kicked the boat, kicked it, not feeling any hurt, only anger, my insides were churning nervously, my mind was blank, and my heart was boiling with fury.
The sea had taken my Pa.