SAILOR
After an hour or two paddling in the fun waves, we came in and the tractor, driver and dog had finished for the day too. We patted his dog, ‘Sailor is his name and Michael is mine’. Michael’s thick black beard hid most of his face but his eyes were full of life and his hand quickly extended to greet us. Michael didn’t surf but he didn’t seem to mind that we did, he was that sort of fella. Sailor’s face was just as full of character; his white hair was patched by black around his eye, making him look like a loveable pirate. Sailor jumped around our legs, always looking back to Michael for his kind nod to continue playing. We started to chat as the sun set, turning the sky red and pink as the cliffs, mountains and islands surrounding us began to reveal themselves more in contrasting darks and shadows. “The old are dying and the young are leaving”, Michael told us succinctly in his short census of local life.
I asked of the only man I knew from the area, ‘Pat the donkey man’, so called for his herd of donkeys!, Michael quickly drew his hand out and motioned bluntly at the ground with a pointed finger and grave face, “He’s dead”.
