“Boiled eggs taste better at sea,” she claimed.
We dedicated our morning to untangling rods
and replacing hooks.
She pulled old shrimp out of the freezer for bait
and the stray cats gathered for a cold breakfast.
Two boiled eggs sealed in a Tupperware lined with tissue.
“The deeper we’ll get, the better they’ll taste.”
I held onto my hat with one hand and the boat with the other.
She took the cap off the jerry can but the siphon didn’t fit.
I held the funnel. The boat swayed. She poured petrol onto my wrist.
It trickled towards my elbow and I gagged.
“I’m sorry! I had no idea you hated the smell so much.”
I wretched over the side of the boat and left my arm dangling
over, until the floor had plummeted far below
and I saved my hand from the ocean’s unknown.
“Are you ready?” She asked, smiling.
She peeled her own egg and dipped it into the water. “Sea salt!”
The egg tasted better, but not because of the sea.
It was the temperamental radio,
the cats with full bellies,
the hilarious stench of fuel
and the eggshells sinking down to somewhere.
Anisha Jackson (she/her) is a first-class Literature with Creative Writing graduate from the University of East Anglia. Her writing revolves around the aesthetics of the everyday and her relationship with her mother’s home country, Nepal. She also writes about lesbian love. In September 2021 Anisha starts her MA in Creative and Life Writing at Goldsmiths University, London.