Eleven years ago

It is a small fishing port like so many other fishing posts around the coast of Wales. A harbour wall protects the cluster of small boats anchored there. Only the most determined of waves will find its way into the harbour, either by rounding the wall and sneaking in through the gap where two rusting light towers mark the entrance at night or on darker days, or by brute force, crashing over the wall as they smash into the stonework. That wall has survived over 250 winters of varying severity without significant damage. The builders of old lacked for machinery and engines to assist them, but by sheer skill and perseverance performed a better job than is possible these days, and with only minimal loss of life and limb. Anchored in the harbour today is a typical mixture of craft. Two fishing vessels moored to the wall are preparing to leave, engines drumming, nets rolled up on a winch and baskets for the catch stacked carefully behind the bridge. Once they were bright blue and pure white. Now the paint is peeling or chipped, the white rust stained, and the blue dulled by years of exposure to the air. The fishermen in their waterproofs are busy with untying hawsers from the bollards on the quayside, and stowing other paraphernalia. The desks are strewn with equipment that would have no function other than on-board ship. A layman can only guess at those functions. Everything looks well used; nothing is new. Small pleasure craft bob gently up and down on the ripples that make it through into the harbour; ripples that outside the walls were called waves. Those with boats with occupants are identified by the rowing boats tied up alongside. These  are used to ferry sailing folk between the boat and the rusting ladders on the harbour wall, that threaten to come away with each tide and each climber, but never do. The still air has a tang of fish and seaweed, diesel fumes and, drifting across from an occupied craft, the unmistakable aroma of a late breakfast being prepared. The walkway along the top of the harbour wall is cluttered, not only by permanent fixtures such as the mooring bollards and rings for tying up small craft, but also the menagerie of equipment required by the niche anglers of the port. Here is a large faded blue net, folded up, with cork floats attaché every nine inches along its perimeter, and currently decorated with dried-up sea weeds. Next are the lobster pots, an intricate domed lattice of wood and rope, with a hole on top. Further along are the oblong crab traps. These are obviously here for repair. The traps are hauled up on a daily basis, the crabs if sufficiently sized, removed and placed in large bins on deck. The traps are re-baited and returned to the sea bottom. Nearby a bin of galvanised iron, with handles, is half full of sea water. Climbing over each other are a dozen or so spider crabs, a local speciality for the local seafood restaurants, and further afield perhaps.
Faint at first, but getting progressively louder, is the sound of a group of boys in conversation as they approach the harbour wall from the narrow alley that connects it to what is euphemistically call the High Street. There are seven of them, ranging from perhaps seven to thirteen years of age. It is Saturday morning shortly after 11 o’clock, and they seem to have come equipped for a day’s fishing. The tide must be on its way in. The older boys have fishing roads, in canvas sleeves, over their shoulders, and carry large wicker creels which almost dwarf them. This is their major leisure activity. The three youngest, assumed to be youngest as they are the shortest, carry crabbing lines, large buckets, and one has a damp paper bag, presumably bait for the hooks. The conversation is getting rather animated, and one of the boys is walking backwards facing the others and gesticulating with his free hand. When he speaks the others start laughing. They are now on the wall, and the conversation has become quite clear.
“I did! I did! I did!” shouts the one boy his voice rising to a pleading crescendo. The others laugh again.
“And was she riding a bicycle?” asks one of the pack to the merriment of the others.
“Don’t be stupid” says the lone boy, “She was swimming like they always do”.
“Always, always? Do you see them that often?”
“Of course not! I mean like in books, stupid”.
“Don’t call me stupid, Stupid” says one of the older boys moving forward from the group and looking down on the other boy. “I’m not the one who is making stupid claims. I remember you telling us how you found half a crown and you’d nicked it from your brother’s money box. And you said that Dai had given you his bike, but you had just taken it. And you told us you had seen a golden eagle up in the hills when everyone knows you don’t see them around here.”
“I did see her” insists the younger boy, now close to tears. “It was last night about sunset, down here. She was just down there” he says pointing to the water just inside the harbour entrance. “I did see a mermaid!”
The rest of the group again burst into laughter, but the oldest either wants to destroy the younger boys faith in himself, or at least demonstrate that he can find a rational solution. A packet of cigarettes can be seen outlined in his shirt pocket. He is the gang leader and needs to act like one, both physically and intellectually.
“So you think you saw a mermaid then; at eight last night. What were you doing down here at that time then? Up to something I reckon. It was getting dark about that time and you go creeping around. So what makes you think you seen a mermaid then?”
“She was swimming just there, and she had a girl’s face and blonde hair and her fishy tail flapped out of the water when she swam.”
“Did she say to you ‘Hallo handsome’ or just go ‘arf arf’? You saw a seal boyo, you just didn’t see her girl’s face had big whiskers; no, wait! That’s normal for the girls in your family isn’t it?” More laughter follows.
“I did see a mermaid, believe me!” demands the young boy, his eyes now red rimmed from suppressed tears. “She didn’t see me. I was just sitting there and then ….”. He pauses for a moment and his faced starts to blush.
“Then what?”
“…. She sorted of rolled over and swam on her back, and I could see her … you knows … her  … you know ……. her …. whatsits.” His face is now bright red.
This information brings nervous and uncertain laughter from the rest of the group. On the one hand it is amusing to watch how embarrassed he is about this revelation. His natural shyness in this field of experience had been overcome by his need to prove to the others that it was not a seal he had witnessed. But they all now have images of naked breasts to contend with. This is beyond their experience too, and now they were starting to feel that they had missed out on something worth seeing. Their fishing gear has been put onto the ground is no forgotten.
The oldest boy shattered their mental images. “Go on”, he demands, “Say boobies. You can’t can you? Say it. Boobies, boobies, boobies.” he taunted. All the attention is back on the lad now. His face is still red, and there are tear tracks down his left cheek. “Perhaps if we used him as bait she would come back and we could all see her boobies”. The other boys instantly know what he meant, and they grab his arms and legs, lifting him off the ground. They are at the edge of the harbour wall, swinging him slowly out over the water, and back again.
“No, please don’t” pleads the lad, “Please,  .. please don’t.”
“Yes!” shouts the older boy, “Let’s see some boobies. We want to see them too. You’re the bait”
As they swing him further and further they chant “One, two, three” and on that he is launched into the air and lands flailing into the water. He continues flailing as he surfaces. It may be the shock of the cold water, but he continues splashing and panicking and trying to call out. It soon becomes apparent that he cannot swim, and is hampered in even treading water by being fully dressed. The other boys just look on, not knowing what to do. Twice he goes under the surface and twice he bobs back up, thrashing with his arms.
Fortunately that day, this episode has been watched by the crew of one of the fishing boats. The raised voices has attracted their attention, and when they see the young boy in trouble two dive in and reach him swiftly. A third fisherman has untied a small rowing boat and is heading over to the rescuers. They hold the lad’s head above the water, and he is hauled onto the boat, now limp and motionless. A minute or two, or is just a second or two, passes until the young lad suddenly throws up a load of seawater into the bottom of the boat. He is pale and looks sickly, and crying again as the little boat heads to the harbour slipway. A fisherman has draped a coat over the boy and rests his head on his lap while he glowers at the other boys looking rather sheepish now Someone runs off to find the lad’s Mam. He will need her.

Present Day

It’s a fine sunny day, just after lunchtime, and young man leaves The Anchor and strolls past the harbour. It’s the same little port and the harbour boasts the same collection of vessels. Well not the same. Most are different ones, but the it is same mix of craft anchored there. The same clutter decorates the harbour wall. Little seems to have changed. If you wanted to point out that times do change, you might point to the red, white and green bunting hanging between the lampposts along the harbour wall. It was the annual carnival last week, and the decorations haven’t been taken down yet.
The youth continues past the harbour, he rarely walks along that wall, and continues onto the beach heading towards the headland at the end of the little bay. In a week this beach will have many families staking their claim to a patch of sand with their stripey windbreaks staking their claim, but today, despite the nice weather it is largely deserted. The schools have not yet broken up for summer. He takes a packet of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and lights one. Is this the older boy from the incident of eleven years ago? He looks like it might be, but he has rather average looks. He is a bit taller, has put on a bit of weight, and his hair is longer. But boys grow up in these communities, get married, have children and get buried in churchyard. Few move away, and even fewer newcomers move in. On balance it probably is the older boy, now a young adult. In the aftermath of the rescue, he was seen as the instigator, the perpetrator. Not by anybody in authority, or by the fishermen who rescued the lad, or by the parents, but by the boys themselves. He had gone that step too far in encouraging them, and misjudged it completely. The others were good lads at heart and regretted their actions. They still spoke to him when they passed in the street, no-one actually accused or blamed him, but he had lost his position within his peer group. Neither he nor the lad had gone fishing with the others down on the harbour wall again. He has no permanent job. Each week he signs on to get his dole, in-between he will turn his hand to any sort of job; cash only please. When no-one has a job for him, like today, he wanders down the beach to the end of the bay, with a half bottle of rum in his pocket. Today though, the sun is strong; too strong to sit out on the beach relaxing. So looking for a bit of shade he heads over to the cave in the headland. Local folklore has smugglers landing contraband in this cave at night centuries ago coasting in on an incoming tide, and then hauling it up natural vertical shafts onto the top of the headland. Why hasn’t he properly investigated this cave before? You can just walk inside at low tide, like today. The youth wanders into the cave, curious about the legends. The entrance is quite wide and it doesn’t narrow much as he edges inside. Yes, he had been here once or twice before, but never looked for those shafts, just playing games as a kid - hiding in the entrance and shouting “Boo!” when other boys passed. He pauses a while letting his eyes get accustomed to the low light. He uses the opportunity to take a slug of rum, and another. The cave was warm and humid, and smelling slightly unpleasant. The last high tide had washed in the usual flotsam; rotting seaweed, a few pieces of driftwood, a child’s broken plastic bucket, and tissue paper. Actually that latter may have been left here after the high tide. He took a wide step over the tissues and stumbled forward. The combination of no lunch, a good few lunchtime pints, the slugs of rum, the close warmth, and the darkness has its inevitable effect. He sits down on the damp rocky surface and duly nods off.
He awakes to find the sea lapping around his ankles. The tide is coming in, and coming in fast. There is only dim light shining through from the entrance. How far had he come down the cave? He strikes out for the light but realises that these upper reaches of the cave are higher up than the entrance. He is soon up to his knees in water and still the floor slopes downwards and still the tide comes in. He retreats to the back of the cave again. Yes, it would be possible to swim to safety, but to do that you had to be able to swim. This was what he could never confess to those other boys eleven years ago. He, of all people, should have known of the possibility that the lad couldn’t swim, yet he was the one who set the last chain of events into action. He could sit here in the gloom until the tide went out; cold and damp perhaps, but safe. Or was he? The water continues to rise. There is no sign of those vertical shafts, no light from above, no secret escape route. They were just fanciful speculation. The slow rise in the water level continues unabated. Prevarication makes the situation worse. Then in the faint light he sees what is like motion in the water coming towards him like spotter onboard a ship during the war would observe a torpedo on target. Only this torpedo is in slow motion. Something rises up from the water, silhouetted against the dim light. He takes out his cigarette lighter; stainless steel, with a proper wick and fuelled by petrol; a prized possession. As he lights the flame he sees her blink, surprised by the sudden light. A girl’s face with long, wet blonde hair is looking at him. She tips her head slightly to the left and lifts her right arm out of the water to gesture for him to follow. He knows she is saying ‘come with me’, but her lips do not move. She gestures again, and again he hears her voice.
“Put your arms around me”. The mermaid is now facing the cave exit, ready to swim out. The youth wades across to her and lies on her back, lightly holding shoulders.  “Don’t be shy” he hears, “Put your arms around me and hold on tight, like your life depends on it”.  Unable to resist, he feels compelled to obey, pleasantly compelled for he now finds he is grasping her breasts, one in each hand. He’s been there before of course, with the girls from the village and in summer, with girls on holiday. But it is like the first time; until he hears the mermaid’s voice in his head, softly repeating “Boobies”. This disturbs him and he finds he cannot let go now, and she flaps her tail taking them out of the cave. Another instruction. “Deep breath”. He barely has time to comply before she dives down a bit and they are both underwater, heading towards the light. Now in the open sea she breaks trough to the surface, where he catches his breath. However, she continues out to sea, flapping her silvery tail while he still cups her breasts firmly. Suddenly without warning she dives again, deeper and deeper. The water is murky, but there is no sight of the seabed. Bits of seaweed and small fish flash past. He needs air, and within seconds his lungs are straining. Deeper she dives, swimming faster and faster, but he cannot let go. As his lungs fill with cold seawater he still hears her chanting “Boobies, boobies”.

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