The sky was as black as the sea when he pushed his self-built boat away from the shore. One hand gripped the wooden rim, the other the accelerator. Even his gentlest grip felt firm and careful. He had done this thousands of times, and the nudge of the first summer storm was nothing but a mere inconvenience.
The electric air pushed the petrichor down on him against the protest of thin plastics. The gusted Cambodian flag danced drunkenly in the background, chiming in as a bystander.
Plop —
His goosebumps warmed up as soon as he dropped the first coconut shell into the water. Then another, the another. Each coconut equalled a lottery ticket in the eyes of a fisherman.
Plop, plop, plop —
Bubble, bubble, bubble —
— he could not believe his eyes!
Frank had always been a blessed octopus. Just last week when he was going out with his date, a trawler net scooped her up along with an entire piece of ocean. The mural stones, the coral reefs, the seafood. All of it turned into one silty crater. He was lucky to escape with his life.
As Frank wandered aimlessly to look for his lost spark — he could not believe his eyes!
It was a coconut on the barren seafloor, even the perfect size for his slightly malnourished body.
Jackpot!
While the fisherman was reeling in the coconuts, one felt particularly heavy. It was a sign of jackpot!
As Frank was forced out of his new shelter, all three of his octopus hearts sank. One could only handle so many false hopes and betrayals. He turned to look at the fisherman, whose stick-like limbs exhausted and shivering like a dying tree. He just couldn’t — he had no more empathy for fate nor life.
Maybe the sky favored certain octopuses, or maybe it was just another coincidence, the wind suddenly picked up.
The gale churned the ocean, adding white foams on top of the towering waves. What made the ocean dangerous was not the size of the waves, but the rhythmic coordination of it. If anger could damage a ship, then wrath could sink it.
As the wind lifted up the fishing boat effortlessly, the fisherman felt the same rage as Frank the octopus. He looked at his coconut shells, half of which still in the ocean. He thought of his wife and kids, then he thought of the money he could get from his catch. He ignored the warnings of the storm and kept going.
For those who wanted to stop believing in hopes, frustrations were less frustrating than they were infuriating.
The fisherman worked faster. The octopus preyed louder. The wind howled stronger.
“Get out —” shouted the fisherman just before the boat capsized.
The night ended with rowdy noise, except no one heard any of it.