The Fisherman

    The thing that Simon was exceptionally good at was fishing. He knew how to cast a net almost a hundred handsbreaths out to sea. He could haul many fish with his firm grip and strong arms, and clean and perfectly prepare his produce for a sale. Simon was also a good leader to his crew, with his brother Andrew at the helm and the brothers James and John by their side. They were like a band of brothers, ready to shed blood for one another, if necessary, for the sake of a perfect catch. But that, as he remembered, was a long time ago. Now, as he watched the other fishermen dotted along the lapis waters of the Galilee, Simon noticed that they were trawling more fish than he. How could this be? He, like they, had the best team that worked hard all day. He also had strong nets and a good spot in the sea. Yet, regardless of their energy or efforts, they came back after an evening’s labour beleaguered and fatigued. Simon walked past his competitors whilst they were proudly displaying their great shawls on the beach and haggling the market stall owners for the best prices for their stock. He watched them under a red, ebbing, sun, incensed by their fortuitousness and his failure. 

    At home, his mother, a stern woman who was always dismissive of her son, was in the kitchen cleaning the table of supper as he stood fixedly by the entrance. 

    "What’s the point of you fishing if it doesn’t pay you a shekel?"

    "What else am I supposed to do?"    

    His wife had just finished putting their son to bed. 

    "Again, another day and nothing... I must be cursed! Why is God not blessing these bruised and blistered hands of mine? I work so hard so we don’t lose our livelihood to these Roman tax collectors. I cry out…"

    "All you cry out for is, 'Where’s my drink!'", she interrupted with a berating tone. "Don’t you pray…? Don’t you fast…? Do you fall on your knees and beg for your forgiveness…?"

    "I have done nothing wrong. I am not a bad man." 

    She looked up at him sorrowfully. He wanted to go and kiss his son goodnight, but instead he turned and fled. 

    Why wasn't God blessing him? He sat at the bottom of the beach with his hand tightly around his bottle, reflecting on the question. The thought gnawed at him. He could not keep himself from falling prey to the evils of that dark, primordial, serpent as its green vapours both strangulated and blinded him, and the words ‘you shall not covert your neighbour’s goods’, which wrote themselves many times on the coastal wall he propped himself up against, would steer his thoughts to linger unhealthily on the other fishermen who he knew did little, but gained much in the eyes of the Lord. 

    From an early age all he wanted was to be a fisherman. He remembered that as a boy he would get up early every morning just to look out at at the infinite expanse of the sea. There he would see the pale-yellow sun rise over a solitary fisherman, who stood fearlessly upright regardless of his small rowing boat bobbing arrhythmically along the surface. He could tell from the frayed and tatty ends of his tunic that he was poor, but his vessel was in decent shape. And he, having ventured out before anyone else, was poised with his net, ready to catch the first of the morning’s fish. Indeed, he had finished before the seagulls gathered, squawking and dancing in the humid air, and the other fishermen who were by now preparing their nets and readying their boats for embarking. He moored his boat, picked up his spoils and took them home to feed his family. That, Simon presumed, was all that mattered to the man; fishing to feed his family, if only for another day. 

    The evening mist began to clear. Simon knew that the lone fisherman was someone he emanated, revered even, for the simplicity of whom he was and what he had to do. It was from this sense of self that Simon, at such an early age, felt strongly about who he was meant to be, even if others did not agree. At the height of his prowess, though, he reached a level of celebrity status. The townspeople had hailed him as the ‘Great Fisherman of Gennesaret' after providing in abundance much needed food after a six-month long famine that had swept over the region. And he and his team soon became authorities to the community of fishermen which soon prospered in the area once the crisis had ended.

 

    As days wore onto months, Simon was known more for idling and spending time drinking on the beach whilst his team often went out fishing without him. When they returned home with little though, he thought it was right not to have gone. What’s the point of giving everything you have for nothing?

    "This isn’t good brother, sitting here all day and getting yourself drunk." Andrew pleaded. 

    "What business is it of yours?"

    "We are your brothers. I am your brother. Our mother worries."

    Simon replied mockingly, "With your baskets looking light of Musht, I can see why. I’m sure you’re tempted to make up the deficit with the dregs of catfish and eels?"

    "Be careful. Watch what you say." John warned. 

    "Or what? What more could you say or do to make my already bad situation worse?" 

    "Think about your wife. Your son." James intervened. 

    "Think about yours, James, and how you lack both the mettle to man your starboard post as well as your manhood in the bedroom!"

    Simon turned back to John. "Maybe you need to realise that you are no longer as young or as able as you used to be, even whilst nurturing that big potbelly of yours."

    "Is it fair for your son to know that his father is an embarrassment, not only to everyone in this settlement, but to him also?"

    It was more that enough for Simon. He lunged at John, ready to grapple and unsteady him on his feet. Instead, by tightly holding his arms, Andrew and James barred his way and tussled with him until they managed to curtail his fierce wriggling and writhing. They then threw him face first onto the sand, hoping that this would finally put an end to his sudden aggression. 

    The confrontation was over. John offers him his hand to lift him back up on his feet. But Simon, whose face was heavy with vexation, refuses to take it. He got up on his own and dusted himself off as the other three picked up their baskets and set off. He could hear James whistling a merry tune (as he always did before and after a day’s working) as they casually walked away.

*

Illustration: Casting his net out to sea - Simon as a boy.