Seán McNicholl

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Not all men love the sea; wild and chaotic, deep and alluring, passionate in its tempest,
caressing in its tide. 

      It will wash around you, and pull you out to its depths, where you will either sink or swim. Some men never know the sea, afraid of its power, its mystery, preferring the safety and security of the land, the dry predictable land. 

                                                                                I’ve known the sea, I’ve lived the sea, I’ve loved the sea. 

                                                                                The sea is like a woman, my woman, my June. 

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Log #324-13

Just Usual Noises. Echoes Interrupted Listening On Vector East Yesterday. Otherwise

Unchanged.

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     They sent me here after the war, decommissioned but not disused, said it would be a short post and it wouldn’t be long until I was back in Whitehall. The gas I’d copped had made me redundant, useless, pathetic, and I guess they took pity. But it felt more like punishment. 

     They did not care about what I had done, the heroics, the evils, the blurred moments in between where neither man nor God can say if it’s right or wrong. I received no medal, no commendation, no pat on the back nor handshake, just a one way ticket to the edge of the world, to sit by the sea and watch, and watch.
     I fell into the pattern of the job, the watcher; the sonar, the radar, the eavesdropping on the radio lines, all drawn together under the relentless blinking eye of the lighthouse. I tracked passing friends and foes, tankers and yachts, submarines and dinghies. For a while it was Them Ones were watching then it was Those Ones, then The Others, then it was Them Ones again.

     Observe, record, report. Observe, record, report. Day after day after day, washing in and out with the beautiful tide, until the monotony of the job placed a revolver in my hand, and boredom begged me to squeeze the trigger. 

     I didn’t. But I damn near did. 

     I sat at the little table, listening as the bleep of the sonar scanned the voluptuous vacant sea before me, stepping out of time with the tick tock of the clock on the wall, my mind dancing tango to a waltz. The nozzle of the gun was cold on my temple, and I rested into it. I thought of my mother, of my father, of my brothers and friends, of my comrades and colonels; all enough to fill a graveyard three times over, all dead and gone. And I was to join them, and be forgotten, and maybe their memory would die with me and they would be gone as well. 

     I gazed out across the blue expanse, down to the cragged bite of the shore, to the smatter of greens streaked across the headland. The sun was trying to lean through the thicket of cloud, beams and rays making it through, as though God was painting the scene one brushstroke at a time.

        And that’s when I saw her. 

        My June.

 

Log #324-14

Intrusive Movement In South Sea. Yacht Observed. Unclear Motive. Youth - Lone - Onboard.
Vessel Escorted.

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     She moved along the headland, quick and easy, the bush and briar no obstacle, at home amongst the scrub and spray. She came and went like a summer’s butterfly, and I observed her for days, unseen, unknown, unnoted in my reports. I watched her, like a sparrow perched in my tower, ready to spread my tawny wings and grasp her in my spindled claws. The binoculars that had been with me overseas and back, to war and back, those binoculars that had spied out hidden enemies with ease, were not enough to hold her beauty, and the shake of my hand made it impossible to keep her in view. They felt foreign and heavy in my hands, and I had to check that they were my own. The scope of my rifle, leaning upon the lighthouse wall, held a steadier gaze, the crook of her nose lining perfectly with the crosshairs, and I held my breath as though I was readying the shot. The bullet lay waiting in the chamber, but I kept my fingers far from the trigger, just watching, admiring, infatuating. After a week I braved it to go over the top, out of my trench of isolation, to confront her, to see her real and in the flesh, to decide if friend or foe. I tucked my cold revolver into my belt, on instinct, a muscle memory my subconscious refused to forget.

     She smiled and waved when I first made my approach, and it disarmed me. No frontline soldier smiled. Perhaps the war would have been lost if they had, certainly if they had had her smile, that hypnotic gleam of white tucked behind a soft pink. The revolver started to press through my shirt, cutting into my back, and I couldn’t remember why I had brought it. My mind emptied of thought, washed away and taken out by the tide of infatuation, the crashing thrill of allure filling its place.  

     ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m June.’

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Log #324-15

Campsite On Mainland Erected. Boat Anchored Closeby. Known Trespasser. Older Man,
English. Photographed Lighthouse. Engaged, Apprehended, Seized Equipment.

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     I fell hard and fast and free. She’d appear out on the headland, from the nothingness, her figure cutting waves through the brush and grass, and we’d spend the light hours together, talking, falling. And by night she’d be gone, whisking away into the fading horizon, taking a piece of my heart and my soul with her, her way of promising to return. 

     I told her about the war, the gas, my shame. She told me about her life back home, her dreams of a happy future, her husband. He’d been taken by the sea, his U-boat harpooned in the war and all souls onboard lost. She cried and I held her, breathing the sea salt on her hair. 

     We passed months together, here and there, like the white foam on the ocean, patchy, rolling, disappearing and returning. I learnt of her depths, the mystery of her abyss that seemed to expand into her and beyond her. I showed her my isolation, and she washed it away. 

When I waited for her, the bleep and blink of my machines whispered of her promise
to come back, and I thanked them for their company. 

 

Log #324-16

Whitehall Envoy Contacted. Arrived Noon. Bogey Escorted To Offshore Guards. Evening
Time Heard External Radio. Japanese U-boat Spotted Travelling South. Home Office Wired
Message. ‘Expected Travel However Extreme Suspicion If Going North’

     What is it that drives a man? What controls his passions? Forms them, guides them, amasses them until they obscure all reason of thought?

     Some part of me knew what she was the first time I spied her, from high up in my tower. I saw her and knew she had been sent. And I think it’s why I moved to confront her, with the revolver tucked behind my back, ready, loaded and waiting. But she shot me first, shot me through with her beauty, her charm, her smile. And my reason died, and my suspicions lay in the grave with it, to fester and rot in the back of my mind. 

     It was almost six months later when she confessed, and the putrid whisperings of doubt were unearthed, exposed, and the stretch of betrayal roiled my stomach. She was an agent, sent by Them Ones or Those Ones, sent to examine me, exploit me, expose me, feeding all information back to her handlers. And she said she did, told them everything except the truth about falling in love with me. 

     She had spent months perfecting her accent, and it showed; flawless English, the Queen's Own, no hint of foreign pitch or lull. She promised she had never lied to me, just omitted certain details, important details, as if that made it better. Although her name wasn’t June, just a codename. She asked if I wanted to know her real name. I said no. Her husband was dead, and she did dream of a happiness yet to come, a future she said I was to be a part of. If I wanted. 

     Just up and leave, leave with her, away to a land where I’d never be found, where she would never be found, where I would be essential to her happiness, useful in fulfilling her dreams, pathetically in love for the rest of my days. 

     She squeezed my hand before she left, told me it was my choice, I just had to let her know, just send a message. 

 

Log #324-17

Misty Yesterday. Dingy Espied. Aired Red Flares. Likely Youths. Tanker Observed Moving
East. Indian. Needed Escorted, Envoy Deployed, Yielded Once Unobserved. Compliant On
Measures, Envoy Took Official Memo. Erroneous Trespass Observed. Mistake On Radar.
Radar Often Wrong. Adjusted Tuning. No Other Objects Noted. 

 

     And now, here I stand, the whitewashed walls looking back at me, waiting for me to decide. I thought to pack up, to ready to go, but I have nothing to take. I want no memory of my old life; I am to be born anew. 

     The binoculars, the rifle, my revolver, all aligned on the table, standing to attention, ready and waiting to be called into action. I lift them one by one, their weight harkening me back, whispering past glories, past shames, my allegiance, my promise to serve. I lift the revolver last, the familiarity of its caress running up my arm, begging me to stow it away, hidden, behind my back one more time.

     I could have killed her that first day on the strand, the loaded revolver, it would have been quick, easy. And yet, here she is, the death of me, the old me, the me I was prepared to kill. 

 

     I’m speaking gibberish now, but isn’t love nonsensical? Isn’t war? I think it is, I think they both are. 

She’s waiting for me, I can see her, the dingy moored by the coast, patiently bobbing, ready to bring us out to sea, out and away, far beyond the grasp of my machines, beyond Them Ones, and Those Ones and The Others, out to our future together. 

     The clock is ticking, tocking, the radar, the sonar, the screens, the lights; they scream, accuse me of my own cowardice, my betrayal, threaten to tell Whitehall of my crimes if I go. But my crime was committed the moment I saw her smile, my time served long before I met her. My mind is clear now, I know what I am to do. 

     I lean over the keyboard, confessing our secret code as I type my final report, and I wonder if Whitehall will examine all our logs and find our little love letters.

 

Log #324-18

Going Out On Date. Bless You, England. 

G.O.O.D.B.Y.E. 

 

Biography: Seán McNicholl is an Irish GP and writer whose short fiction spans multiple genres. He is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee and has been nominated for Best of the Net (2024) and Best Microfiction (2025). His work has appeared in Beyond Words, Raw Lit, Frazzled Lit, Belfast Review, and Intrepidus Ink, among others. You can find more about his writing at www.seanmcnicholl.com.

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