Tales of Evening Tides: A Collection of Short Stories

By Ian Hayes Nagus

In normalizing the certain process of death, we have the ability to provide an amazing gift to our loved ones who remain behind us. We can provide them a model of what bravery looks like in the setting of an uncertain transition. As we move from this world to the next, from life to death, we do not know what we may encounter. But if we have faith in something, a peaceful awareness of what is, and a gratitude for what has been, then we can create and leave and impressive legacy for those who will inevitably and ultimately follow. This collection of short stories serves to document a few examples of such legacies.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665533775

Ian Hayes Nagus

Ian Hayes Nagus is among other things a thoughtful father, husband, friend, and medical provider. Through the current and his previous works, he has been able to share his artful perspective and commentary in a way designed to connect, inspire, and to challenge.

Book preview

TALES OF EVENING TIDES

A Collection of Short Stories

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IAN HAYES NAGUS

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2021 Ian Hayes Nagus. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Each of the short stories in this collection is entirely a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events are either the products of the

author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Published by AuthorHouse  08/04/2021

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3376-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-3377-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021915761

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or

links contained in this book may have changed since publication and

may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those

of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher,

and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Dedicated to Kaiya and Ethan

Contents

I Introduction

II The Long Row

III Coastal Plain

IV Cell Death

V Destination Hospice

Introduction

Narratives have always mattered. They are the basis and

inspiration for our humanity. Just consider the people

and characters you are naturally drawn to. What do

their stories have in common? For the entirety of human

existence, our individual and collective expressions have

served as invaluable vehicles for teaching, connecting, and

passing on our culture and ideas to those that come after

us. Sharing our narratives also can create the potential

to heal. As our species has evolved, so too has the

technology we use to share our experiences. Good, bad,

or indifferent – how we express ourselves defines us, and

also serves to highlight those truths that we hold so dear.

These are some of my stories…

THE LONG ROW

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The waxing gibbous moon had not fully set as the Eastern horizon warmed in the distance. It was a quite a sight to behold on that perfect August morning. The magnificent pink and purple cirrus clouds came to life as the luminescent orb rose out of the distant sea. I moved toward it.

The conditions were calm that morning, without wind nor wave. The unusual silence was only interrupted by the knocking of the heavy wooden oars against the locks on my fourteen-foot Swampscott dory. Each rhythmic stroke broke the water, creating a slight splash. As I pushed and pulled the oars through the water tiny whirlpools formed, and I was propelled ahead.

I had set off from the rocks at Eagle Hill long before the others knew that I had left. They all remained peacefully asleep in their beds, dreaming of the beautiful summer day to come. Although I would frequently set off on trips like that one, it was typically during reasonable daytime hours and with a fishing rod in my hand. That day was different. I had an errand to run.

The tide was high and outgoing, which made the trip quite easy. As the tidal river was full, my flat bottom boat could cut across the shallows with ease. I made way toward Plum Island Sound. With the water being so clear, I could see the clam flats pass below me. An occasional horseshoe crab scurried by. That day my attention was focused, and only occasionally distracted by the sounds of breaching schoolies leaping after their sunrise feast. Facing backwards while moving ahead, I soon lost sight of my launch.

I remembered that many years prior, while in the company of a brilliant Sikh, I learned a sublime meditation. To set the rhythm for my quickening pace I mentally recited the chant that he once taught me. The words helped me to support my psychic inertia. The breath helped maintain my physical momentum. ‘Sa – Ta – Na – Ma’ in four equal parts of the inhale. ‘Sa – Ta – Na – Ma’ in four equal parts of the exhale. Between breaths my straining muscles exclaimed, Wahey Guru!

The day had broken, and the world again became energized. The warm salt air filled my nose with each inhalation. It was a smell familiar to my soul, and one that I desperately longed for whenever I was away from the ocean. Whenever I could sense it, I knew I was home.

Before long, I was two miles from where I started and steadily approaching the entrance to Ipswich Bay. When I passed the spindle and Sandy Point, the current picked up, relieving my efforts to proceed. Turning my head while looking over my right shoulder, I saw beyond the bow. I saw life.

A group of terns worked the surface of the disturbed water ahead. As I approached the hungry sea birds, I could see an active group of forage fish schooling below. Small menhaden were breaking the surface. For them, the chance of being caught by a small hungry bird was far less than the likelihood of being eating by one of the ravenous bluefish driving them up from below.

I rowed right through the feeding frenzy, separating it briefly, before it once again coalesced in my wake. I looked back over my stern. I saw death. The fast swimming bluefish were breaking the surface, grabbing the small bunker with their sharp conical teeth. Their gray blue scales, pale bellies, spiny dorsal fins, and broad forked tails fell back into the water with a satisfying splash.

Drifting east, I was headed for the rising sun. While passing over the submerged sandbar, I could see that a dark shadow was lurking below my hull. I had encountered similar beasts before, but only much further out and more often at night. It was a juvenile white shark surveying the scene below. Perhaps he was chasing the blues. He appeared about half the size of my boat. As I carried on, he briefly surfaced and noticed me pass. With a silent spy-hopping glance, I could appreciate that he knew where I was headed.

When the soothing ring of the bell buoy was in earshot, I pulled up my oars. It was from here that I would float on and listen. I knew the repeating sound as a beacon. I knew the sound as a call to prayer and worship. I wholly believed in its role to drive out evil spirits. This place was my cathedral, my temple, my monastery. The sacred water from my oars fell upon my warm body, soothing it from the rising heat.

There adrift, I sat and prayed for a bit while reflecting upon the great ocean. My racing heart slowed and my mind calmed. I then took to the task at hand. From my pack I pulled out the small plastic bag, a pack of Winston reds, and a small bottle of Saint George pear brandy. Although it was an unusual selection for most, this is what he told me to bring. It was a proper offering, and it would do the trick.

The lukewarm brandy burned a bit going down, though the flavor was ripe with the taste of the scores of pears used to make it. It reminded me of the fallen ripened fruit that came from gnarly tree outside the back bedroom of his old house. I had to crouch down below the port gunwale to light the Winston as a slight breeze started to emerge. It eventually lit. It also burned going down. While I smoked the cigarette, his ashes went in the water and dispersed. Experiencing an immediate buzz, I asked the current to grant him eternal rest and the sun to perpetually shine upon him. He was gone.

While the morning sun continued to alight, the tide began to turn. The flowing tide would once again carry me home.

COASTAL PLAIN

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"Let children walk with Nature, let them see the

beautiful blendings and communions of death and life,

their joyous inseparable unity, as taught in woods

and meadows, plains and mountains and streams

of our blessed star, and they will learn that death

is stingless indeed, and as beautiful as life."

-John Muir

Ni and the Band

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Ni was a strong and wise Paleoindian woman. At nearly five feet tall she was of typical small size for her people, but her spirit bounded high above the trees. Ni was a matriarch. At roughly thirty-five years old, she was one of the few elders among her group. At this age her power and influence were at their peak. She was beloved by and devoted to the sixteen other individuals in her band. Nine of them were her direct descendants. The remainder had joined the group in earlier times and had become her family too.

Throughout the year, Ni’s close-knit group would rotate their residence between long established camps. They were an opportunistic people. They traveled extensively and followed the path of a great river as it coursed through their native lands. As they moved, they would optimize their resources along the way. They hunted local and migratory game and foraged the ever-changing vegetation. Each summer they would move East toward the edge of the forest as it approached the expansive coastal plain. When winter approached, they would retreat inland to familiar and safe habitat among the rocky hills and protected forests.

There were many other similar extended family groups, living in the region. Most of them maintained peaceful relationships with one another. Separate groups would congregate together throughout the year. When bands came together in the summer months, they would meet at one of several strategically located coastal camps. Despite several local encampments vying for similar