Kevin moved to the island last. He likes the solitude, but not isolation. There’s a difference. At least that’s what he says when it comes up at their monthly meeting. “Yes, yes, of course, so do we,” the other two say, “but we see each other more than once a month.” But Kevin only shrugs. As long as he has a cup of tea, some soup and hard bread, and a good book (really any book) he’s content. And the monthly meeting, he enjoys those too—quite a lot. He won’t admit it, but he doesn’t need to. They know, Sam and Jerry. It’s written all over his face when they see each other.
Jerry moved to the island first. Didn’t expect anyone else to join him out here a stone’s thrown from the far coast. You can walk to land during low tide. When he saw Sam headed up the water’s edge it’d been more than a year since he’d seen another person. That moment hit him like a punch in the gut. He hadn’t realized how lonely he’d been. It’d crept up on him. He’d waved to Sam, and Sam—of course—had waved back. They’d been fast friends ever since. Jerry spent his mornings and evenings fishing, supplying food for the three of them.
Sam hadn’t meant to start a life on the island. But once he and Jerry waved to each other he knew he’d never leave. He still went into town forty miles away. Took the little truck they shared that sat parked in a shed a mile inland. He went once every couple of months, or as needed, to restock on supplies. Music is what Sam likes. Listening to it on his old record player, playing it on his banjo, guitar, or harmonica. He has an accordion too, he’s not very good with it, but he’s been practicing. Kevin says it sounds like an elephant crying.
It’s a good life on the island. Simple, unhurried, the sound of the ocean a constant thread running through each moment. Time feels different there, more calm. That’s what all three of them have in common. A love of the sea, of the calm it brings.