The Sea Spirit
A short story by Prasad Paul Duffy
The Pacific greeted the rugged Oregon coastline in long, ancient rhythms, emerging from a horizon so vast it seemed almost mythical. White-capped waves rolled toward the beveled boulders, crashing in bursts of foam beneath a sky slowly brightening with dawn. Sea birds rode the steady wind with effortless grace above the towering Battle Rock, while sea lions lounged on piles of purple stones below.
Morning arrived like an old friend in Port Orford, which sat perched along the cliffs, clinging comfortably to the edge of the restless sea, having made peace with the uncertainty of constant change. Weathered homes painted in soft blues, faded reds, and pale greens overlooked the harbor. Wooden porches faced the water as though the houses themselves enjoyed watching the tides come and go.
Along Oregon Street, the town awakened slowly in an unspoken agreement to always take it easy. The small bakery unlocked its doors as the scent of fresh bread drifted out, announcing the day. A few locals lingered outside the coffee shop, paper cups warming their hands as they talked about the weather, the fishing, and whatever stories the ocean revealed to them the night before. A battered pickup truck rattled along side them before continuing past the public library whose hand-painted sign had probably been there longer than most of the town’s residents.
Inside the truck’s cab, Rufus Johnson, rugged and stoic, his cropped gray hair and beard accenting his sunburnt, wrinkled face, drove with one hand resting on the wheel. The radio played softly. He glanced over at the passenger seat. His wife Kimberly sat beside him, radiant in the slanting sunlight, her long blonde hair glowing like spun gold. She sang along to the music on the radio, her voice joyful and unrestrained. She turned toward him and laughed. “Come on, Rufus, sing with me.”
“You know, I don’t sing,” he growled.
“Come on, baby, it’s our song.” She continued singing on her own, throwing her whole heart into the melody.
The truck traveled farther down the sandy port road toward the harbor—the true heart of Port Orford—where smaller boats waited patiently beneath the high dock. Their hulls creaked gently, ropes tightening and loosening with the undulation of the sea, buoys knocking softly against wooden pilings, nets hung to dry like huge macrame in the salty atmosphere.
Rufus drove his truck up onto the wooden slats of the high dock and parked. The song on the radio continued to fill the truck’s interior as Rufus listened to it quietly before turning the key, and the engine died. The music vanished with it. Silence settled over the cab. Rufus glanced at the passenger seat beside him. It was empty.
Wearing only a flannel shirt and jeans, Rufus grabbed his lunch box and gear, opened the door, and stepped out into the chilly morning air. Rows of commercial fishing boats rested on trailers like grounded whales waiting for the tide. He moved past them toward a small shack near a massive crane. The smell of diesel and fresh fish blended into the familiar stench of a working harbor. Lloyd Earl, the dock master, stepped out of the office shack just as Rufus approached. He was a round, cheerful man whose gravely voice carried easily over the wind and waves. He looked genuinely surprised to see Rufus.
“Morning, Cap’n Rufus.”
“Morning, Lloyd.”
Lloyd’s face softened. “My condolences, Rufus. She was a good woman.”
Rufus nodded. “Thanks, Lloyd. What can you do?”
Lloyd hesitated. “You going out today?”
Rufus gave him a sideways look, responding sarcastically. “No, I just got up, and drove down here to enjoy the sunrise.”
“I just thought.”
“Yea?”
Lloyd shifted awkwardly. “Well, let me know if you need anything, or if I can do anything for you.”
Rufus let out a tired breath. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if one more person says that to me.”
“Sorry.” Lloyd didn’t know what else to say.
“I lost my wife, for chrissakes. I’m not a God damn cripple.”
Footsteps approached along the dock. Henley Wilson and Jimmy Muzio, wearing bright yellow, PVC overalls and rubber boots, headed toward the boat slips. Henley was lanky and relaxed, the kind of man who carried the easy rhythm of a small town with him. Jimmy was shorter, wired with untamed energy, arguing loudly into his cell phone.
Henley lifted a hand as he arrived. “Morning, Rufus. What’s up, Lloyd?”
“Morning, Henley,” Lloyd replied.
Jimmy kept talking as he approached. “I know, Kathy. I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that.” He glanced up and saw Rufus studying him sternly. Henley gestured discreetly for Jimmy to wrap up the call. “Listen, I gotta go. The fish are calling. Okay. I love you too.” Jimmy shoved the phone into his pocket.
Rufus continued to scrutinize Jimmy. “All squared away?”
“Yeah. Sorry, Skipper.”
“Where’s Marty?” Rufus inquired gruffly.
“I don’t know. I thought he’d be here already,” Jimmy answered defensively.
Rufus glanced toward the harbor. “Well, we’d better get to it, since we’re shorthanded today.”
The crane groaned as it lifted the vessel from its place among the others. The captain and his crew climbed aboard as it hung in the sling. Suspended in the air, Rufus’ boat swung slowly over the high dock and out above the ocean water thirty feet below. Across the stern, painted in bold letters, was its name: The Sea Spirit.
The three fishermen moved with the quiet confidence of men who have lived their entire lives in conversation with the sea. They checked their gear, prepared the coolers, and sipped coffee from thermoses while studying the horizon, the way farmers studied the sky. Because out there, beyond the harbor mouth where the Pacific began, the ocean was not just scenery. It was livelihood. It was danger. It was mystery. And for Rufus, it was home.
From the far end of the dock, a voice shouted. “Wait! Don’t leave without me!” Marty Branson, a young whippersnapper, came sprinting down the pier, in his plastic overalls, waving his arms wildly, like a castaway spotted on a desert island. A greenhorn, he leapt recklessly to catch the descending boat, but misjudged the distance, plunging straight into the freezing water with a yelping splash.
Henley and Jimmy doubled over in laughter. Rufus remained stone-faced. “Somebody throw him a line.”
Once The Sea Spirit landed in the waves, ready for its daily voyage, Marty was rescued and boarded. The deckie huddled on the stern, wrapped in a blanket, dripping seawater, and muttering under his breath while the others continued chuckling.
Up in the pilot house, Rufus stood behind the wheel. He glanced down at his first mate. “We all squared away?”
Jimmy nodded. “Aye, Skipper.”
Rufus started the engine. “Let’s do it, then.”
The fishing boat rumbled forward, leaving the harbor behind as it steered toward the open Pacific. Out beyond the jagged rocks, the sea shifted through a multitude of shades, from steel gray under the morning mist to deep sapphire when the sunlight began to break through the fog. The petulant waves crashed against the bow with a sound both wild and steady, like a giant heart beating just beneath the surface of the world.
Seagulls circled overhead, shrieking to one another, as pelicans glided low across the swells, following in the wake, their wings nearly brushing the foam. Farther offshore, the dark backs of harbor seals rose and fell in the tide, while below the surface, another world moved unseen: schools of fish flashing like liquid mercury, ominous shapes drifting through cold corridors, seaweed dancing across the ocean floor. The Sea Spirit glided steadily above it all.
Up in the pilot house, the small windows framed the ocean like moving paintings. Rufus stood behind the wheel, his eyes remaining fixed ahead, calm and unreadable.
On deck, Jimmy, Henley, and Marty worked among coils of rope and stacks of coolers. Cables were checked, hooks sorted, gear prepared with careful precision. The boat rocked beneath their feet—metal clanging noisily against metal.
“So how do you think Rufus is doing?” Henley asked his coworkers in a careful whisper.
Jimmy answered as frankly as he could. “He seems to be handling it pretty well. I know if it was my Kathy who drowned, I’d be a mess.”
“What if she did it on purpose?” Marty brazenly theorized.
They exchanged circumspect glances before settling into a reverential hush, hands moving in practiced rhythm as they readied themselves for the day. The long trolling cable slid into the water, its multi-yard length studded with hooks that vanished, one by one, beneath the dark surface. The plan was simple: to lure as many black cod as the sea was willing to surrender. This was the life of a commercial fisherman—always unpredictable. Whether or not the fish were biting, they were still risking their lives out on the open, rough waters, where anything could happen.
Hours later, they hauled the heavy line back in and poured the thrashing catch into the waiting coolers in the ship’s bay. Once The Sea Spirit returned home, it dangled high above the harbor, suspended in the crane’s cable like an enormous, steel sailfish caught in midair. Inside the cab, Lloyd guided the heavy load back toward the dock with the dexterity of a man who had mastered his job. When The Sea Spirit settled safely into place, he leaned out the window and gave them a casual salute.
Rufus nodded in gratitude.
Jimmy clapped Marty on the shoulder. “Be careful you don’t fall overboard again, Marty.”
Marty rolled his eyes. “That’s so funny, I forgot to laugh.”
Slowly, the vessel was lowered onto its trailer. The crew climbed down onto the dock below, its thick, wooden planks worn and weathered over the years.
Rufus turned toward his first mate. “You got this, Jimmy? My back is killing me. I’m thinking about clocking out early.”
Jimmy nodded. “Aye, Skipper. Don’t worry about it. We can handle it.”
Rufus headed toward his truck, shouting over his shoulder. “And don’t dawdle. The Salty Dawg is waiting on today’s catch.”
“We got this,” Jimmy assured him.
“Take it easy, Skipper,” Henley called out.
Marty shouted in a sing-song voice, “Bye, Captain Rufus! See you tomorrow!”
The engine turned over, and the truck rolled away from the dock, following the winding highway along the Oregon coast, past the curves carved into the cliffs. The ocean stretched beside him like a silent companion, glowing bronze beneath the setting sun.
Rufus arrived at the funeral home just before closing, but still in time to fulfill the errand he had been dreading for days. He barely spoke a word to the director as he signed the necessary paperwork and received what he had come for.
Walking slowly toward his truck, carrying a golden urn, Rufus opened the passenger door and set it gently on the seat. Carefully, he tried to secure it so it wouldn’t tip over. Finally, he pulled the seatbelt across it and clicked it into place. Then he started the engine again and gradually drove off.
Before heading home, Rufus turned into a small gas station on the edge of town. He climbed out and headed toward the adjacent country store. Inside, fluorescent lights hummed above neat rows of snacks and beverages. Rufus placed a six-pack of beer on the counter. “Give me thirty dollars of gas.”
Carol Stanford, a rustic, self-reliant woman with curly brown hair and thick glasses, rang it up. “That’ll be $38.50.” Without saying a word, Rufus handed over his credit card. The machine beeped softly as Carol ran it. A receipt printed, and she tore it free. She watched him while he leaned down to sign it. “My condolences, Rufus,” she whispered, at a loss for words. “Kimmy was a true friend.” He handed the receipt back without any acknowledgment, turned and pushed the door open, stepping out into the fading light.
As the tank filled, Rufus felt the sensation of someone watching him. He glanced across the parking lot. A Native American wood carver sat beside a colorful roadside shack staring at him with deep, penetrating eyes. Slowly and deliberately, the old man rose and trudged over toward Rufus, who removed the pump and slid it back into its cradle. Rufus twisted the gas cap tight and turned just as the Indian, wearing silver braids and a buckskin jacket, stopped beside him.
“Can I help you with something?” Rufus asked, his tone cold and guarded.
The stranger studied him quietly before speaking, his bronze skin creased above his eyebrows. “I have a message for you.”
Rufus frowned. “Do I know you?”
He shook his head slightly. “Your wife’s spirit is trapped between worlds.”
The words struck Rufus like a punch in the gut. “What?” His voice hardened. “What the hell do you know about my wife?”
“You must let her go for her to be free,” the wood carver insisted.
Rufus stepped closer, anger rising. “Listen, pal. You don’t know me or my wife, so let’s just say you back off, and we pretend this never happened.”
The Indian’s expression did not change. He simply lowered his head slightly. “Great Spirit is watching over you.” Then he turned and ambled away.
Rufus watched the strange man return to where he had been sitting, confusion and irritation twisting together in his chest. “What the hell?” he muttered to himself before climbing back into his truck and driving away.
By the time Rufus turned onto his dusty street, the day had begun to soften, bathing the rural neighborhood in gray twilight. He eased the truck into the driveway, shut off the engine, and returned home to a house filled with silence. He dropped his lunch box and grocery bag on the kitchen counter. One beer came out of the six-pack while the others disappeared into the refrigerator. From the freezer, he pulled out a TV dinner and slid it into the microwave. The machine hummed softly. Two place settings were laid out. Only one was used.
After dinner, Rufus sat alone in his rocker, while the urn rested on the mantle above the fireplace, where a small flame danced over crackling wood. In his hands, he held a pocketknife and a small stick, slowly whittling it down. Thin curls of wood drifted to the floor like pale shavings of memory. Now and then, the knife paused. His eyes lifted toward the mantle—to the urn. Then the blade resumed its quiet work.
Night lay heavy over the small coastal town, as Rufus slept beneath rumpled blankets, the steady rhythm of the distant surf filtering through the open window. Moonlight spilled through the curtains and painted the room in pale blue. For a long time, nothing moved. Then Rufus’ eyes suddenly opened. They stared into the darkness without focus, as though awakened by some silent summons. Slowly, he pushed back the covers and sat upright. His movements were mechanical, dream-like, as if he were a somnambulist answering a call he could not hear. He rose and stumbled out of the shadowy room.
The night air along the beach was damp and salty. Stars scattered across the sky like crushed diamonds, and the moon floated low above the ocean, casting a trembling, silvery path across the water. Rufus sauntered over the sand toward the surf. The tide washed in and out against the shore, the waves breathing like some ancient creature asleep beneath the surface. Rufus stepped into the dark water without hesitation. It climbed past his ankles, his knees, his waist. Then he dove forward and began swimming. Cold water closed over him as he submerged, kicking downward through the deep blue darkness toward the ocean floor—silence surrounding him except for the muffled roar of the sea.
Then he saw her: a figure moving through the deep water ahead of him. His wife. She drifted through the dark like a luminous phantom, her hair flowing around her face like sea grass in the current—a mermaid ghost gliding through the ocean’s cathedral. Rufus swam after her desperately, but she remained just beyond his reach. His lungs burned. His chest tightened. The need for air overwhelmed him. He surged upward and burst through the surface, gasping.
Suddenly, the shrill cry of an alarm clock shattered the silence. Rufus’ eyes opened again. He lay in the dark bedroom, breathing heavily. For a moment, he gazed at the ceiling shadows, the remnants of the dream clinging to him like mist. The alarm continued to ring. He shut it off. Carefully, almost reverently, Rufus lifted the covers and rose from the bed. His movements were slow and quiet, as if he feared waking Kimberly, who had slept beside him for years.
Morning unfolded through small routines that kept his grief at bay. Steam filled the shower. The mirror fogged. Rufus wiped it clean and stared at his reflection while brushing his teeth, studying the tired stranger looking back at him.
Later in the kitchen, he poured coffee. Half a pot, filling only one of the two cups set out on the counter.
Dawn spread pink light across the Oregon coast as his truck barreled down the highway.
At the harbor, Lloyd greeted him as usual. “Morning, Cap’n.”
“Morning, Lloyd.” Rufus walked toward The Sea Spirit waiting on its trailer.
Another day. Another trip into the open Pacific.
Out on the ocean, the crew worked the deck while Rufus steered from the bridge. Far from shore, the fishing boat cut through the vast aqua expanse like a barracuda. The gulls followed in a loose cloud above the vessel, riding the wind currents, patient opportunists waiting for scraps.
Henley suddenly noticed something in front of the bow. A sleek gray shape pierced the water, followed by several more, all racing through the transparent waves. Henley climbed up and joined Rufus in the wheelhouse. “Check out the pod of dolphins,” he shouted over the din of the engine.
“I see them.” Rufus eased the throttle back. The boat slowed. Henley grabbed the wheel as Rufus leaned over the rail, watching the dolphins surface and vanish again, spinning through the water like ballet dancers. “My wife loved Dolphins,” he casually informed Henley as he returned to his post. “She used to swim with them all the time.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Skipper. If there’s anything I can do?”
Rufus’s expression hardened. “God damn it, Wilson. Not you too? You know what you can do? You can treat me normal, like it’s just another day on the water, and that’s that.”
Henley raised his hand in salute. “Aye, aye. Captain.” He jumped back down on the lower deck beside Marty, who was enraptured by the dolphins, photographing them with his iPhone.
Later, at the end of the day, the crane lifted boat filled with heavy coolers of fish onto the dock while Lloyd guided them down from above. Marty rolled the coolers across the pavement toward Rufus’ truck while Jimmy secured the gear. Henley and Marty transferred them onto the bed, covering them with more ice.
When the work was done, Jimmy wiped his hands and looked at Rufus. “The boys and I are going out for a drink, if you want to join us.”
Rufus shook his head. “Nah, you know I’m not much of a drinker.”
“It’s not about the booze, Skipper. It’s more about the camaraderie.”
“I gotta get this haul to the Redfish,” Rufus mumbled, avoiding his first mate’s gaze as he climbed into the cab of his truck. “See ya tomorrow.”
“Later, Skipper,” Henley called.
“Bye, Captain Rufus! See ya tomorrow!” Marty sang again.
After dropping off the day’s catch at a few local restaurants, Rufus headed home. Sunlight flickered through the trees along the highway like a slow strobe. On an impulse, he decided to stop at a cliff spot on which he and his wife used to watch the sunset together. Before long, a familiar voice rustled him from his reverie.
“Why don’t you go out with the boys after work?” Kimberly cajoled him. “You could use a little fun time, don’t you think?”
Rufus turned to his wife, who sat beside him in a glowing white sun dress and smiled forlornly. “Going out is no fun without you.”
She laughed. “Ha! When did we ever go out?” She gave him a teasing look. “I warned you, Captain Johnson, that one day I could be gone if you didn’t appreciate me more.”
Rufus swallowed hard as he struggled to form his words. “I have to know Kimmy. Did you mean to? Or was it an accident?”
“All I remember is: I went out for a sunset swim, and the rip current grabbed hold of me and dragged me out to sea. I would have never left you intentionally, my love.”
“That’s what I figured,” he lied—to himself, more than to her.
“Rufus? There’s something I need to ask you to do for me, sweetheart.”
“What?” Rufus said instantly. “Anything, babe.”
Her voice softened. “I need you to let me go.”
The words seemed to hollow the air. “I can’t,” Rufus whined. “Don’t ask me to.”
“I can’t move on until you do—and neither can you.”
“I don’t want to move on. You’re my everything,” he insisted, his voice breaking. “My entire world.”
“That’s not true,” she responded gently. “There are a lot of people who love you here in Port Orford. It’s time to open your heart and share your love with others.”
“I don’t want to love anyone else.”
“You can’t stop loving, Rufus. Love is like breath. You can’t live without giving and receiving it.”
Tears filled his eyes. “Then I don’t want to live another day without you.”
“That’s not what I’m saying,” she clarified. “You always knew how to twist my words. It’s time to say yes to life, my love, and really start living. Life is a gift on loan to us. We never know for how long, so we have to make the most of it and savor every moment.”
Rufus’ voice cracked. “I love you so much, Kimmy.” The grief he had been holding in suddenly broke loose, and he began sobbing inconsolably. Kimberly wrapped her arms around him and held him close, rocking him gently as he cried like a child. For a long time, the only sound was the ocean and Rufus’ broken breathing.
Eventually, the storm inside him quieted. He lifted his head, his face damp and salty like drops of seawater, only to find Kimberly gone. Looking up, he desperately searched the sky for her, beyond the slow movement of clouds drifting over the last vestige of twilight, but could no longer feel her presence.
The following week, Rufus’ truck rumbled into the gas station parking lot under the brightness of late morning. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as he pulled up beside the pumps and shut off the engine. For a moment, he sat there, hands resting on the steering wheel, as he took a deep breath. Then he climbed out and headed toward the country store.
Inside, the small bell above the door jingled as Rufus stepped in. The familiar smell of burnt coffee and fried chicken hung in the air. Behind the counter stood Carol, her glasses perched halfway down her nose as she flipped through a magazine.
“Morning, Carol.” He greeted her without any prompting.
She looked up, surprised by his demeanor. “Good morning, Rufus.”
He leaned one elbow on the counter, relaxed in a way he hadn’t been for a long time. “Thirty dollars gas, please,” he said, pulling a few bills from his pocket. “And give me a lotto ticket. I’m feeling lucky today.”
Carol took the money and tapped a few buttons on the register before handing him a long receipt with the lottery numbers printed across it.
Rufus looked at it, then grinned. “Tell you what. If I win, I’ll split it with you.”
Carol shook her head immediately. “No,” she scoffed.
“Why not?” Rufus said with a playful shrug. “You can be my good luck charm.”
Carol folded her arms. “Okay,” she said with a knowing smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Rufus chuckled, tucked the receipt into his pocket and headed back outside. “Have a good day.”
“You too,” she answered smiling to herself, before returning to her magazine.
The ocean breeze greeted Rufus as he stepped into the sunlight. He started toward his truck but then slowed. To his left, seated outside the small roadside shack, was the old Indian wood carver. He worked quietly with a chisel, shaping a rough block of tree stump. Wood shavings curled at his feet like pale ribbons as the shape of a tribal chief slowly emerged from the grain. Rufus stood watching for a moment, then walked toward the shack. “Excuse me, sir.” The Indian looked up and nodded in silent greeting. Rufus shifted his weight, unsure how to begin. “I want to apologize for my behavior last week,” he said finally. “And to thank you. You were right. But I didn’t want to face it.”
The Native American studied him for a moment, his eyes soft but steady. “She is free now.” He spoke gently. “I feel her spirit soaring with Great Spirit.”
Rufus scrutinized the wooden sculptures arranged along a shelf beside him: figures of animals, faces of chiefs, totems shaped by careful hands. “Wow,” Rufus murmured. “That’s some amazing woodwork.”
The old man’s eyes twinkled. “You like? I’ll give you a deal.”
Rufus smiled faintly. “I do some wood carving myself,” he said. “Some small whittling mainly.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small figure. It was a woman. Simple, delicate, carved from a single piece of wood. Rufus held it out. The old woodcarver examined it, then handed it back to him. “Mind if I sit awhile?” Rufus asked tentatively.
“Be my guest,” he replied with a welcoming grin.
Rufus sat on the bench and extended his hand. “Rufus Johnson.”
“Lone Wolf.”
They shook hands, then Rufus began whittling the wooden woman as the wind moved softly through the open space between them.
A month or so later, Rufus headed to the harbor in his truck, accompanied only by the low hum of the engine and the whirr of tires on the pavement. Wearing a dark suit and tie, Rufus drove with the heavy stillness of a man carrying something that could not be set down. His hands rested firmly on the wheel, but after a while his gaze drifted sideways. The passenger seat was empty—except for the urn. It sat there, strapped in quietly, the shiny gold ceramic catching a faint sliver of sunlight through the windshield. He studied it for a long moment before returning his eyes to the road.
Rufus slowly drove up to the dock where a group of locals, dressed in their Sunday best, waited patiently for his arrival. A variety of potluck dishes and beverages were set on and in the coolers usually reserved for the catch of the day. Despite the solemnity of the occasion, there was a feeling of community in the air. In an uncharacteristic gesture, Rufus allowed each person to greet him with a hug, reflecting their unspoken support.
The bright afternoon sun spun beams of gold over The Sea Spirit, which was filled with two dozen mourners, including Lloyd, Jimmy, Henley, Marty, and Carol. Even Lone Wolf, the old wood carver, was in attendance. Rufus eased the engine into neutral and let the boat glide to a gentle halt. The hull rocked a few times, then settled into the slow rhythm of the sea. He climbed down onto the deck, just as Jimmy reached for the anchor, and heaved it over the side. A distant thud pulsed faintly up the rusty chain when it found the ocean floor.
At the stern, Rufus felt the boat rise and fall beneath his feet in syncopation with the beating of his heart. With the urn pressed tightly against his chest and salt stinging his lips, the air shimmered, and the horizon seemed to stretch forever in every direction. He stared at the gathering of friends, then nodded to Carol, who began singing “Amazing Grace,” one of Kimberly’s favorite songs. Despite himself, he sang along as the others joined in unison.
Then, as if summoned from the depths, a dolphin breached the surface in a sudden, clean arc, flinging droplets of light into the sky. For a breathless moment, it hung there, silver and sunlit, before crashing back into the water with a ringing splash that echoed across the quiet sea. The group watched in awe, then burst into applause.
Rufus took it as a sign. With trembling fingers, he lifted the lid from the urn. The world seemed to hush: the engine ticking as it cooled, the water lapping gently at the hull, the distant cry of a lone gull wheeling overhead. He tipped the urn and let its contents spill over the edge of the boat, sprinkling it like fairy dust into the crystal-clear water. An ocean breeze caught some of the drifting ash and lifted it upward, spiraling higher and higher, until it disappeared into the heavens above.
