I always ride by the puddle on my way to work It’s about fifty yards from the Coast Guard station. It lies along the curb in front of an abandoned warehouse on the waterfront. It reaches into a dip in the pavement, filling it and overflowing onto the road. Its size is static. It doesn’t wax or wane. During the summer months when other better smelling puddles dry up revealing dusty interiors the fish puddle stays the same. During winter and spring, when those same puddles become engorged with rain, the fish puddle is unaffected. But its size is not what makes the fish puddle enduring. It is its smell. In the morning cars swerve to avoid it, and those that don’t are easily recognizable by the tentacles of stinking water that reach across windshields and creep along car doors. After work, you can see the sailors who hit the puddle washing their cars. Spraying their undercarriages and frantically scrubbing siding with soapy rags. The station itself is home to a constant flurry of fish puddle related activity. The opening and closing of doors, the on and off of fans, a strictly enforced no open window policy. The stevedores and sailors outside the station build their days around the puddle. Warm afternoon breezes torment us. If the wind blows north towards the puddle it’s safe to sit, talk or smoke. But if it changes south everyone goes inside or down to the boat basin. A few minutes and the fish puddle’s stench will sneak into clothing and hair, lingering like smoke after a barbecue.

But now the fish puddle isn’t on my mind. I'm awake. I can't sleep even though I'm tired. I feel more tired than I have in a long time. It’s cold, not dark. From my window I can see the stars outside, even some of the moon. There are clouds too, but they’re all over the place, a sideshow to the full night sky. Some of the clouds cover the moon. It’s cold though, I must have left a window open or a door. I get out of bed. I don’t turn on lights. I feel the carpet beneath my feet turn into cool linoleum as I walk from living room to kitchen. The doors are closed so are the windows. I walk back to the bedroom, get in under the covers. I pull the sheets over my head, look at the blanket for a little while. I stare at the seams, the stitching. Being beneath the blanket gets old quick. The air becomes stuffy, hot and difficult to breath, but I’m still cold. I poke my head out, look around, blink. I can’t see anything without my glasses. I glance at the clock. A blurry four a.m.. ‘If I’m not asleep in fifteen minutes I’ll stay up all night,’ I decide. I’ll definitely be able to sleep tomorrow. No, it would be today- tonight. Tonight I’ll sleep.

I’ve had trouble sleeping for awhile. I don’t know why, I haven’t seen anything particularly fucked up. The occasional body pick up, but I don't think about those that much. Who knows, maybe that's the problem. Mostly, it's just small things. Work, little pieces of conversation, bills I haven’t payed. They play on repeat. You can handle the small bad things. When you go to sleep thoughts of a girl might keep you awake for a few minutes, but it’s just a few minutes and that happens to everyone. But the small things you can handle keep growing. They grow and grow until they’re a giant thing that you can’t.

I put the pillow over my face. It’s too heavy. It doesn’t conform to my facial contours, whatever those are. It sits precariously on my nose and forehead. I replace it with a t-shirt. That’s better. It flows across my cheeks and falls on my neck. As I lose the sense of the cotton on my skin, the touch of the blankets, the sheets and the t-shirt, I feel sleep coming. It sneaks up, trying to surprise me. My consciousness rolls in and out of dreams like a boat on a gentle wave. I feel my body carried away, submerged, then again at the crest.

And then it’s gone. I am fully awake, I’ve lost it. I look at the clock. Four twenty three. I sit up. Push the pillow against the headboard and lean against it. It is fucking cold. I put a trench coat on over my underwear and go outside on the patio. It’s not really a patio. I’m not trying to impress anyone so I wont lie. It’s just a concrete slab. There used to be a chair and a bucket there. Someone took the chair, there’s only the bucket now. I sit on the bucket and light a cigarette. I hear the foghorn out at sea. I’ve seen the fog horn out at sea, barnacles stuck to its tired red paint. But now I just hear it. The cigarette tastes bad, but I keep going. Cold. Two nights no sleep and I’m first boat tomorrow- no, today.

I jerk my head and blink as I hear the foghorn again. The sun is almost out, it must be six. Six thirty at the latest. I’ve fallen asleep on the bucket. This seems dramatic. I’ve never fallen asleep on the bucket before, or any bucket for that matter. I’m not sure if I want to tell the guys at the station though.

“A bucket, what do you mean you fell asleep on a bucket? D’you mean the shitter or something?” they would ask.

“Just a bucket, you know, the one on my patio,” I’d reply.

“You don’t have a patio. Oh, are you talking about that cement slab.”

I go inside, shave. Change into my uniform. It’s not ironed, but that doesn’t matter. It’s the weekend. The CO wont be in, not unless we get a case. The XO wont either. Just first boat. Fine by me.

I unlock my bike from the telephone pole in front of my house and begin riding to the station. My car? Impounded. The cold air bites against my clean face, burns my face. The bakery is opening, a light is on. I can smell bread. Maybe I’ll get some for lunch. A loaf or a croissant. No, a loaf. I’ll buy some smoked salmon at the wharf, eat half for lunch and save the rest for dinner. The candy factory on the boardwalk is already open when I ride past. A machine in the window stretches taffy, pushes it together, and then stretches it again. The candy looks soft and warm.

I lock my bike to the pole in front of the station. I check it twice, pulling on the lock to make sure it caught. It didn’t, it comes undone. I remind myself that this is exactly why I double check my lock every time. I re lock it and then triple check it just to be sure. It’s locked. I walk to the bench in front of the station, fighting the urge to go back and quadruple check the bike lock. The sun is rising, I see its light glinting off the bright work on the boats. The still water in the harbor slaps absentmindedly against the hulls of our boats, wishing it was slapping something else.

Second boat is up already. I see the ready boat coming across the bar. Bar reports have to be in by five and radioed to Sector by six. The rest of the guys are on the boats, doing boat checks. Checking sirens, engines, tow lights, nav lights, going in the hatches.

Alright, any leaks?

Nope.

What about line, do we have all the lines. There should be four?

Fuck yeah we have four lines. Fuck yeah!

Tow real is locked and pinned?

Yeah.

Radio checks: “Coast Guard Station Luna Bay, Coast Guard Station Luna Bay, this is CG 25147 requesting radio check on 8-3-Alpha over.”

“25147, I have you loud and clear. How me, over.”

Key the mike twice, affirmative. Done, go up to the station for quarters. Same thing every morning. Same thing every where in the Coast Guard. Maybe the same thing in every Coast Guard in the world. The British check the same thing as the French who check the same thing as the Israelis who check the same thing as the Iranians. We’re not all that different when it comes down to it. We all have flashing lights and bilge pumps.

The guys file up from the boats, tired, dreary eyed. I toss my cigarette in the water. Watch it float. I’ve tossed so many cigarettes in the water, I wonder if the filters are biodegradable. I wonder if fish eat them. Maybe they sink. Who knows? I go inside. Quarters. I hear it piped over the station’s PA.

“All hands, report to the training room for quarters.”

All hands report. All hands scramble to get seats on the couches. The new guys don’t get seats on the couches. They know it’s not going to happen and walk sullenly to lean against walls. One new guy rests against the couch in front of the TV. Petty Officer Gonzales looks at the couch leaner and says, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing.” The couch leaner doesn’t say anything. He gets up and goes to the wall with all the other new guys.

The O.O.D. comes in.

“Alright, second boat, are boat checks done?” he asks.

“Yeah,” says some guy from second boat.

“Good, after quarters, if nothing’s fucked up, liberty for second boat will be granted.”

“Got it,” says some other second boat guy.

Almost all of first boat is there. Twenty four hours and we’ll get liberty.

“What’s the bar report?” asks the O.O.D..

“We got swell running 6-10 at the mouth,” another guy from second boat begins, “10-12 at the entrance buoy. Wind's 10-15 knots. Temperature 49 in the morning, rising to 67 in the afternoon and dropping to 47 in the evening. FPCON level . . .” a few people laugh at this, no-one knows what a FPCON is, only that it has levels, “ . . .As I was saying,” he continues, “FPCON level is Bravo. Keep your eyes open for suspicious activity.”

There is never any suspicious activity. Except during Harbor Fest when everyone who isn’t working is drunk, and even then it’s not suspicious because being drunk is normal during Harbor Fest.

Quarters is over.

“Liberty for second boat granted,” gets piped over the PA system. One of the new guys who fell asleep against the wall gets a banana thrown at his head. It misses his face, hits him in the stomach and then drops to the ground. He looks around sleepily, spots the banana and picks it up. He starts eating it. The guy who threw it looks disappointed.

I go out and down to the boats. The tide is low and some starfish have dropped from the pilings along the pier onto our dock. I kick a couple of them into the water. I wonder how long it will take them to climb the pilings and fall back on to the dock. Maybe a week, a month, a year. I’ll have to kick them back in the water when they do. We can’t have starfish lying around everywhere. I pick up one of the starfish and try to attach it to a piling. It wont stick so I drop it in the water. A seal pops its head up from beneath the dock to investigate. The seal looks curiously at the sinking starfish and then at me. The seal swims further down the dock. He flops onto one of the boats and then lies down. I pick up a hose, turn the nozzle from stream to mist, and spray him with it. He looks at me sadly and then flops back into the water. Splash. I turn the nozzle back to stream and start spraying the dock, getting all the bird and seal shit from last night off. The birds that sit on the pier above me stare down at the hose. I look at them threateningly and point the hose. They fly off screaming. Once the dock is clean, I sit down on a deck box hidden from the station behind one of the boats.

“Petty Officer Grey, report to the comms room,” I hear piped over the PA. I get up, walk back to the station and go to the comms room. The comms guy looks at me.

“What?” I ask.

“Grey, O.O.D. wants you to shine the anchor,” the comms guy says.

I look at him. There is a fudgecicle stain on his shirt. I know it’s fudgecicle because the comms guy is the only one at the station who eats fudgecicles. He keeps them in the station freezer. He wont let anyone else eat them even though he gets them ten for one ninety-nine at Stew and Tim’s Grocery and Liquor.

“Thanks man,” I say. As I walk out, I imagine the comms guy saying in a nasally voice, “Get your own fudgecicles.”

I walk back down to the deck box on our dock, grab some polish, plastic gloves and go to the anchor. It’s a large decorative anchor in front of the station. No matter how many times I shine it, it will always be gray. I snap the gloves on like an anchor surgeon and take out some polish. The polish is cotton saturated with shining chemicals. I begin to polish. I make small circular smears with the cotton at first just doing the top of the anchor, and then I polish more. I start to make little cave man drawings in the dark smeared polish that covers the anchor. I draw me, and then I draw me polishing an anchor. The wind is going, I can smell the fish puddle, it’s right down the street. It’s bad. I breath through my mouth.

I hear a splash and see a car driving through the fish puddle. It’s black, maybe a Lincoln. I don’t know anything about cars. The car pulls into a spot in front of the station and two spaces down from the anchor. A man wearing priest clothes gets out first. He’s big and Irish looking. He has a tan face you can see lines all over, lines where there shouldn’t be lines. He winces when he smells the fish puddle, more lines. He looks at the hood and winces again. Another man, younger, wearing a suit, gets out of the back followed by a woman. The man doesn’t look like he’s used to wearing suits. He seems uncomfortable and his gray blazer hangs stiffly. The woman is pretty, but it looks like she’s been crying. Her eyes are red and her make up looks likes it was put on quickly. She clutches a small box. The box has holes poked in the top like there’s a hamster inside. The man has a bouquet of flowers, bright, all different colors. They walk around the front of the station. I smile at them, but they’re looking at the ground and don’t notice. The priest does though, he gives me a huge, “How ya doin’” grin.

“Just fine,” I think.

“Ready boat crew report to the ready boat,” comes over the PA.

I’m on the ready boat crew. I wipe the caveman drawings off the anchor, pick up the shining gear and walk back down to the docks. I put my stuff inside the deck box and then go to the shed on the pier. I take my Search and Rescue bag out. Put on my float coat, a bright orange jacket that’s also a life vest, and then walk down to the ready boat.

The rest of the boat crew is there. Petty Officer Leonard, who's the coxswain, Petty Officer Guthrie and Seaman West.

“What’s up,?” I ask Leonard.

“Funeral, someone’s kid died,” he says.

West spits off the side of the boat and doesn’t say anything. He’s new, but has been around long enough to know that if he did say something no one would listen. Guthrie opens the hatch to the survivors compartment and goes down to sleep.

“We gotta dump it and then head back,” Leonard continues.

“Who's getting underway,” I ask.

“The family and a priest,” he says.

I go below deck and flip on the batteries. Guthrie turns restlessly on a pile of survival suits. West gets life vests for the passengers and Leonard fires up the engines. Black blue diesel smoke pours out of the rear of the boat like a bruise on the air. The family shuffles down the dock. Another star fish loses its grip on a piling and falls in their path. They stop for a second, not knowing what to do, and then walk around it. I go to the bow and man the first line connecting us to the pier. West takes the stern line. The family and priest climb aboard.

“Cast off line one,” Leonard shouts.

I do. I take the fenders off as well.

“Cast off line two,” Leonard shouts.

West casts off line two. I put the fenders in the forward hatch and then walk aft. I grab the life jackets from the deck and hand them to the family. West goes up the ladder and sits down next to Leonard leaving me stuck with the passengers. The priest has some trouble putting the vest on, he’s kind of big. I adjust the straps for him and he zips it up. He smiles and nods again. I lean against the ladder and watch as the boat pushes slowly through the bay. We cross the bar a few minutes later, going past the rocks that protect the harbor from the ocean. The woman starts crying. The man and the priest don’t notice. The engines are too loud to notice. The only reason I do is because I’m standing right in front of her. She clutches the box to her chest. Tears stream down her face. I’m not sure if I should do anything, so I don’t. I sit against the ladder watching her cry. As the boat picks up speed, the tears dry on her face.

“Hold on,” I shout over the sounds of the ocean and the diesels. I point at the tow bit. The family and the priest grab onto it. The man puts the bouquet under his arm and reaches with his free arm for the woman’s hand. He squeezes it and looks into her face. The priest’s knees buckle as we go over swell, like a little kid learning to surf.

We have to go three miles out because bodies, even ashes are, waste. All waste must be dumped three miles off shore. The boat keeps going. Three miles is about a twenty minute boat ride. I wish I could smoke. I wish I could tell them this is the calmest I’ve ever seen the ocean. I can’t though and it’s not. It’s actually pretty choppy. They’d know I was full of shit. So I just sit there and watch the woman cry, holding her little box with the air holes poked in the top. I wonder who poked the holes.

The boat stops and the engines idle loudly.

“Go ahead,” Leonard yells.

The man takes the box from the woman and hands her the bouquet. The priest starts talking, but no one can hear what he says over the engines. I walk with the man to the port side and as he leans over to place the box in the water, I grab the back of his life vest so he wont fall. He places the box in the water and doesn’t let go immediately. Little air bubbles come up through the holes in the top of the submerged box. The air pushes out flecks of gray ash as well. The ash floats up, pauses as if deciding what to do, and then floats back down. I hold on to him. The vest is slick against my hands. I feel him shaking, or maybe it’s just the engines. He lets go and we both watch the box drift down. It goes down until it’s swallowed completely by the green water. More bubbles float up and then the bubbles stop. The swell has gone down a bit. The boat rocks gently. I let go and the man walks to the woman. He hugs her and kisses her cheek. She walks to the port side and holds the bouquet. She unties some ribbon around the stems of the flowers and drops them in the water one by one. She lets the stems roll down her palm and off of her fingers. She pauses when she gets to the last flower, but eventually drops it in with the rest. We watch the ocean carry them away in all directions. Some flowers float past us, others further out to sea. A tulip gets sucked against our hull in the engine’s pull. The woman walks to the side, leans over and picks up the tulip. She holds it for a moment, salt water dripping down her sleeve, and then she puts it in her pants pocket. The wet flower makes an imprint beneath the fabric of her slacks. The man smiles at her and the priest says something else that I can’t hear. I give the thumbs up to West, who taps Leonard on the shoulder and then we drive back. I lean against the ladder. We watch the flowers disappear. We can see their colors at first, then just their shapes, and finally nothing. They’re still there though, they haven’t gone anywhere.

We pass the entrance buoy, cross the bar. Leonard radios it in:

“Coast Guard 47152 crossing the bar at this time, over,” he says. The station says something else and he keys the mike twice. West and I reattach the fenders as we pull into the dock. I hop onto the dock and toss the stern line to West. I walk forward and put the bow line on. West helps the family and the priest down from the boat. They walk back down the dock, step over the starfish and then back to their car. Guthrie comes out of the survivor’s compartment and lights a cigarette. It goes out, so he lights it again, but it keeps going out. He yells something and throws it in the water.

After we secure the boat, we sit on the deck box not saying anything. I see a fog bank out at sea coming in and realize I can’t smell the fish puddle. I inhale deeply, but nothing. I walk back up to the station. On the way to the station I inhale again. Nothing. Just ocean air. I go in and ask the comms guy for a fudgecicle. He stares at me like I’m crazy.

“Are you fucking nuts!” the comms guy seems to be thinking. Then he looks at me and his face changes, “Will he appreciate the fudgecicle, will I be setting a bad precedent,” I see him wonder.

I nod, “Yes I will. I will appreciate the fudgecicle. No, I will not tell anyone you gave me the fudgecicle.”

He nods dismissively, “Sure, go ahead, eat it, but never come to me again.”

I understand. I go to the freezer, take out the fudgecicle, unwrap it and bite. I eat it in huge bites. It hurts my teeth. It’s great though, probably the best fudgecicle I’ve ever had. I finish it and all that’s left is the stick. The top half is fudgey and the bottom half clean. I chew the stick for a while, tasting the sad child hood taste of Popsicle stick. It gets splintery, I take it out and stare at my teeth marks. As I stare, I think that if I were to lie down right now, I could sleep. I could sleep for a long time. But I don’t. I throw out the Popsicle stick, snap on some gloves, grab the shine and go outside. By the time I’m at the anchor again, the wind is blowing. The wind is blowing south and the fish puddle is everywhere.