The sea was unusually quiet that morning, as if it, too, was holding its breath. CUTIS stood barefoot on the wooden deck of the small fishing boat, toes curled slightly over the edge, feeling the gentle sway beneath. The smell of salt, engine oil, and old nets filled the air. Normally, this scent made CUTIS feel calm. Today, it only made the nervousness stronger.
Dad sat near the back of the boat, hands gripping a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. His eyes stared toward the horizon, but his thoughts were clearly far away. The lines on his face seemed deeper than usual, carved by years of responsibility, sacrifice, and worries he rarely spoke about.
CUTIS noticed everything.
This journey wasn’t supposed to be emotional. It was meant to be simple—a fishing trip, just father and child, like they used to do when CUTIS was younger. Back then, Dad would laugh loudly, tell exaggerated stories about “the biggest fish that ever got away,” and teach patience through the quiet act of waiting. But today, Dad was silent.
CUTIS swallowed hard.
“So nervous,” CUTIS whispered to the wind, fingers tightening around the small object hidden inside the jacket pocket. The plan had been made weeks ago, but now that the moment was close, doubt crept in. What if this is wrong? What if Dad doesn’t understand?
The engine slowed as the boat reached their usual spot. The water shimmered, reflecting the early sunlight like scattered silver coins. Dad finally spoke.
“This place hasn’t changed,” he said quietly.
CUTIS nodded. “Yeah. Just like before.”
They worked in silence, casting nets, adjusting lines. The routine felt familiar, almost comforting. Yet beneath it all, CUTIS’s heart raced faster than the tide. Every movement, every glance at Dad, made the secret feel heavier.
Dad had been struggling lately. CUTIS knew it, even though Dad never admitted it. Business wasn’t good. The body that once felt strong now complained with every early morning. Some nights, CUTIS heard Dad sigh deeply, thinking no one noticed. But CUTIS noticed. Always.
As the sun climbed higher, Dad suddenly stopped and sat down heavily. He rubbed his hands together, staring at them as if they belonged to someone else.
“CUTIS,” he said slowly, “do you ever get scared thinking about the future?”
The question hit like a wave.
CUTIS hesitated, then answered honestly. “Yeah. All the time.”
Dad chuckled softly. “Good. At least I’m not alone.”
There it was. The crack in the armor.
CUTIS felt the moment approaching, heart pounding so loud it seemed impossible Dad couldn’t hear it. This was why the journey mattered. This was why the secret existed.
CUTIS moved closer and sat beside Dad, feet dangling over the edge of the boat. The water below was deep and dark, but steady.
“You taught me how to fish here,” CUTIS said. “You taught me how to wait. How to stay calm even when nothing bites.”
Dad smiled faintly. “I don’t know if I taught you much.”
“You taught me everything,” CUTIS replied quietly.
The boat rocked gently as CUTIS reached into the jacket pocket. Fingers brushed against the folded paper, worn soft from being unfolded and refolded a hundred times. The nervousness peaked, but CUTIS took a deep breath and pulled it out.
“Dad,” CUTIS said, voice shaking just a little, “there’s something I need to show you.”
Dad turned, surprised. “What is it?”
CUTIS handed him the paper.
At first, Dad didn’t understand what he was looking at. His brow furrowed as he read slowly, then again. His grip tightened. His breathing changed.
“CUTIS… what is this?” he asked.
It wasn’t just paper. It was proof of months of effort—earnings saved quietly, plans made in secret, decisions chosen carefully. It represented security, hope, and a future that didn’t rest entirely on Dad’s tired shoulders anymore.
CUTIS’s voice trembled. “I’ve been working on this. Learning. Saving. Planning. I know you worry about everything. About me. About Mom. About tomorrow. I wanted you to know you don’t have to carry it alone.”
The sea breeze lifted, fluttering the edges of the paper like a living thing.
Dad stared at it, then at CUTIS. His eyes widened, then softened, then filled. He looked away quickly, embarrassed by the sudden tears, but CUTIS had already seen them.
“You did this… for me?” Dad asked, barely above a whisper.
CUTIS nodded. “For us.”
For a long moment, the only sound was water gently hitting the side of the boat. Dad’s shoulders began to shake. He laughed once, broken and surprised, then covered his face with his hands.
“I thought,” Dad said slowly, “I thought I was failing you.”
CUTIS moved closer, resting a head against Dad’s shoulder, just like long ago. “You never failed me. You gave me strength. This is just me giving some back.”
Dad pulled CUTIS into a tight embrace, rough hands gripping like he was afraid to let go. The hug was different from others before—heavier, deeper, full of unspoken years.
“You shocked me,” Dad said, voice thick. “I came here to clear my head, and instead… you change everything.”
CUTIS smiled through watery eyes. “I was so nervous you’d be mad.”
Dad laughed again, this time louder. “Mad? I’ve never been more proud in my life.”
They sat together as the sun climbed higher, talking more openly than they had in years. Dad spoke about his fears—about aging, about not being enough, about losing control. CUTIS listened, really listened, offering not solutions, but presence.
Later, when the nets came up heavier than expected, Dad’s laughter returned, genuine and bright.
“See?” he said. “The sea approves of today.”
CUTIS grinned. “I think it always did.”
As the boat turned back toward shore, the nervousness that once wrapped tightly around CUTIS’s chest had disappeared. In its place was something warm and steady—a quiet confidence, a shared understanding.
Back on land, Dad paused before stepping off the boat. He looked at CUTIS with a seriousness that carried weight.
“You know,” he said, “one day I’ll be gone. But moments like this… they stay. You’ve given me peace I didn’t know I needed.”
CUTIS felt a lump in the throat. “You’re not going anywhere yet.”
Dad smiled. “No. But now I’m not afraid of the journey.”
That evening, as they walked home side by side, carrying the day’s catch, the world felt different. Lighter. Balanced. The fisherman’s journey had become something more than a trip—it had become a turning point.
So nervous at the start, CUTIS had stepped onto that boat unsure and afraid of doing the wrong thing. But by choosing love over fear, action over silence, CUTIS had comforted Dad in a way that no words alone ever could.
A shockingly special way.
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in gold and fire, one truth was clear: some journeys aren’t about the sea or the fish—but about healing hearts, together.
