The Song on Benhá River

The Song on Benhá River began simply enough: a single dockhouse perched on four columns half it’s height. One man and his two sons carved the holes in limestone thigh-deep at lowtide—chest-deep otherwise—during a spring and part of a summer. The clear flowing water made it easy to see how slowly their efforts progressed as the white limestone billowed from the holes in a straight line to the sea. Later, posting the timber columns was an adventure that began with cursing and screaming amongst the three men, but turned jovial when the first column—nearly sunk—rocketed out of it’s mooring with the man atop like a cork from a bottle. He splashed to the surface several boat lengths away after his short flight. Before his sons could ask if he was unharmed he pointed at the oldest, smiled, and yelled across the water, “You’re next!”

Then as he saw the column flowing with the river out to sea. “Shit. Hook the tree!”

166 words on day 496