Stephen Goldrick: ‘Vasili’

Vasili

Standing at the sorting tray, the dawn has
bored us and the prawns have let us down.
Five empty shots last night, the sharks have had
a gutful. It’s the dolphins’ turn as
we cash in on any lazy crusty worth its salt
and hope to find a coral trout for breakfast.

Grimace back at humps of snorting dolphins:
will they take it from my grasp today?
Greek fishermen advise “Call ‘Vasili’
a certain way, they will dance for you.”
So I call “Vasili”, tentative, and drop a squid.
Throw them a pike. Smack, I hear it. Smack again.

Starboard quarter ten yards off, a young prince
from the pack cavorts a sky curve. Yell
“Vasili”. Jumps again, and the shackles
of low prawn prices, torn nets, torn sleep
dissolve. I dance a work-stool Zorba, toss them fish like
breaking plates, there’s plenty of ’em, we are both

dancing in a Torres Strait duet, so
shout again “Vasili”, and it flits
upon its feather tail. I feed grinners
to its gypsy mates, but still it jumps
when I call “Vasili”. ‘Camera. Get the camera. Get …’
Cook scurries, shoots the dolphin, quick aperture.

How often Dionysos-like I’ve longed
to turn the crew to dolphins, making
them jump. “Vasili!” There it goes again,
grinning like a smartarse, slapping back
into the cosmos, cook and skipper in its wake,
me dancing for the king and where’s my breakfast?

Stephen Goldrick