The sun had just begun to stretch its light across the south western coast of Erin. Morning shadows stretched long and lean across the sand, the sea whispering to the shore with a rhythm as old as time. I strolled along the beach, the salt air sharp in my nostrils, the cry of sea gulls and corbeaux circling above. It was then I came upon them, five fishermen, hardened men with skin darkened by years of sun and sea, their hands calloused from hauling nets and pots.
They were gathered under a makeshift shed patched together with driftwood and galvanise. An outboard engine leaned like a tired soldier against a tree stump. Nearby, a small fire smouldered, smoke drifting from a blackened pot where fish broth bubbled gently, its aroma mixing with the brine of the ocean. The scene was humble yet full of life; men bound by the sea and its dangers.
The fishermen were repairing fish pots and mending nets, their movements steady and precise, but their voices carried a different weight that morning. Between them passed a battered flask of Puncheon rum, what they laughingly called “fisherman’s tea.” Their conversation rose above the hiss of the waves, not the usual jokes and old stories of battles with grouper or kingfish, but something heavier.
“Boy, I swear,” said the eldest of the group, a broad-shouldered man with a weathered face, “two nights ago, I see it plain as day, a submarine. Right dey, out dey in the deep. The whole thing black and long, like a shadow cutting the water.”
He gestured with his knife, the blade glinting in the sun. Another fisherman, thinner, wiry, his hair salted with grey, shook his head with conviction.
“Nah man, what submarine? Me, I see a jet. Fast, low, and making a roar like thunder. I nearly drop mih lantern when I see it.”
A third leaned forward, eyes narrowing as though daring the others to contradict him.
“All yuh blind. It was a carrier. Big like a floating city. The lights, the shape, I know what I see. That was an aircraft carrier cruising out dey.”
They all fell into a heated debate, voices rising, each man trying to outdo the other, swearing by his sight, his years at sea, his fisherman’s instinct. Their gestures grew larger, the flask of rum changing hands quickly, fuelling the fire of their words. I stood at a distance, listening, almost smiling at the drama of it all. After all, fishermen were known for their “tall tales” stories stretched wider than the sea they fished.
But this morning, the air was different. There was no playful laughter following their claims, no teasing about who drank too much Puncheon the night before. There was tension, a seriousness that seemed to hang over them heavier than the humid air.
One of the younger men, no more than 30 but already with deep lines etched around his eyes, broke the silence that followed their quarrel.
“All yuh remember Grenada? 1983? When the Yanks land? That was under Reagan. Caribbean soldiers went in too. That was no story, that was real. Who to say they not watching we here now?”
The words seemed to linger in the air like smoke from the fireside. The older men, normally quick to scoff, nodded instead. Their faces bore something I had not expected ... fear. These were men who braved sudden squalls and rough seas, who wrestled with nets heavy with catch or sometimes empty as a beggar’s hand. They had faced capsized boats, stings from jellyfish, even the threat of pirates in more recent times. Yet, here they were, eyes shifting towards the horizon, speaking in hushed tones about forces far beyond their control.
“America doh move troops and ships for nothing,” another said, his voice barely above the crackle of the fire.
“If they here, something coming. Mark mih words.”
The broth pot bubbled, sending up the savoury scent of bandania and fresh fish, but none of them reached for it. Their attention was fixed on the sea, as if the answers to their unease were hidden just beyond the line where water met sky. Far off on the horizon, the Venezuelan mountain range could be seen.
I watched their hands continue to work the nets, threading cord through the fine mesh, tightening knots, but their minds were elsewhere. Every glance towards the horizon seemed weighted with questions. The sea itself appeared complicit in their unease. Its gentle swells rolled with deceptive calm, but one could imagine steel beasts moving silently beneath, unseen but present. Above, the sky was cloudless, yet the fishermen’s words had conjured visions of roaring jets and massive carriers lurking in the distance. The flask passed again, each man taking a swig as if the fiery liquid could steady his nerves.
“I telling you, I see it with mih own two eyes,” the eldest repeated, his tone more subdued now.
“We is small people, yes, but small people does feel big ripples when giants moving.”
He continued after draining a shot glass of Puncheon, “Sharky say how even them boatman that does run Venees up and down the main slow down, them not chancing it...”
The others nodded slowly. These were not academics, not analysts of geopolitics. They were men of the sea, their world measured by tides and currents, by the weight of fish pots and the strength of their nets. Yet, instinct told them that something was shifting, something larger than them all. I stood there quietly, an observer to their unease. Their voices rose and fell with the rhythm of the waves, but beneath it all was a tremor, a rare admission that even the fearless could fear.
The broth was finally ladled into tin cups, steam rising into the humid air. They sipped in silence now, the fiery Puncheon tempered by the comfort of the hot, savoury soup. Yet, the taste could not wash away the tension. Their eyes, hardened by years of sun and sea, still flickered with the unease of men who had glimpsed shadows of war upon their familiar waters.
As I turned to leave, the sound of their voices followed me down the beach, not the tall tales of fishermen boasting of catches and near misses, but the hushed tones of men who sensed something on the wind. Something they could not name, but could not ignore.
The Erin coast lay quiet, the waves breaking softly on the sand. A lone pirouge with the name “Mi Amigo” roughly painted on its bow bobbed up and down. There was a heaviness in the air, as if the sea itself knew secrets it was unwilling to share.
The fishermen, under their shed of driftwood and galvanise, drank their Puncheon tea and waited.
As I walked away, I heard the words of the great Mighty Shadow playing from an old Toshiba transistor radio hung on a boat shed door, a twisted clothes hanger for an antenna, “Tension in meh body, Tension in meh soul...”
