Life In A Bottle
1981 — Margate, Atlantic City, New Jersey
The late afternoon sun lay flat across the patio table where Anita sat reading a letter from her lawyer. The pages trembled in the breeze from the Atlantic.
She lowered the papers and looked at her daughter.
“But I am interested, hon. It’s just I’ve got a divorce settlement to deal with — important life-or-death things. Now tell me again… you went twenty miles offshore and threw a bottle into the ocean?”
“The whole class did, Mom — last year. A school project, remember? Maybe I should’ve gone with Dad. At least he listened to me. Sometimes.”
“Yeah. If you could catch him sober. You’re fourteen years old, Marilyn. Try acting your age. So, how many messages were found?”
“Six. That’s all. Most of them only drifted a few miles down the coast. A fisherman in Key Largo answered Julie Brogan’s message. I bet her father drove down there and threw another one in the water just so she could win the prize.”
She shrugs.
“Mine’s still out in the Atlantic somewhere, I guess.”
“Well,” Anita says, folding the letter carefully, “if Julie’s took that long to reach Florida, yours could be halfway to Japan by now.”
“No, Mom. Not Japan. It couldn’t…”
Marilyn flashes her dimpled smile, then lets it fade.
“Oh, never mind.”
Far out beyond the beach, the Atlantic rolled steadily toward the horizon.
Harry Hogg Home— Stories, Songs & Quiet Corners is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
1985 — Invernaver, Sutherland, Scotland
The tide had left a dark ribbon of seaweed along the edge of Murdo Morrison’s field. Among the driftwood and tangled kelp something glinted blue in the morning light.
Kirsty Morrison bent down and picked it up.
“Well now… it’s been a while since I’ve seen one o’ these.”
She held the blue glass bottle up to the sunlight. The sea had worn the glass dull and cloudy, its color somewhere between sky and water.
Murdo wiped his hands on his trousers.
“I’ll tell you one thing — that thing seemed determined to come ashore. I’ve thrown it back into the sea for months, but it keeps coming back. I was afraid it might break and cut the sheep.”
Kirsty turned the bottle slowly in her hands.
“It’s sealed.”
She peered closer.
“And there’s something inside it.”
Murdo grinned.
“What is it then? A desperate sailor writing home from a desert island?”
She ignored him.
“For years, I suspect, that wee thing’s been wandering the ocean,” she murmured. “Seen more of the world than I ever will.”
Murdo shrugged.
“Rubbish from the sea.”
But Kirsty kept studying the bottle a moment longer before easing the cork free.
Two Weeks Later — Margate
“Oh my God! Isn’t he gorgeous?”
Anita held the newspaper at arm’s length. A photograph of a burly man filled the front page under the headline: Amazing Journey of Message in a Bottle
Marilyn frowned.
“This is scary, Mom. That woman — Kirsty — could be mad you called the newspaper.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! A bottle crosses the Atlantic and someone finds it in Scotland. The paper wants to fly them here. It’s wonderful.”
“That was five years ago, Mom. I’ve moved on.”
Anita fetched iced drinks from the kitchen and joined her daughter on the patio.
“A blue bottle carrying your letter floats across the ocean and someone finds it now — in Scotland of all places. Don’t you wonder why now?”
She smiles.
“I call it fate.”
Marilyn shakes her head.
“Mom… you’re crazy.”
But she’s smiling too.
Invernaver — One Week Later
“Behave yourself, Kirsty.”
Murdo shook his head.
“If the bottle took five years to get here, it’s hardly urgent. Besides, I like choosing where I go on holiday.”
“When was the last time we had a holiday?” Kirsty demanded. “All expenses paid!”
“And who looks after the croft?”
“Hamish’ll mind the sheep.”
Murdo sighed.
“You’ve been reading too many romance novels.”
“Maybe,” she said.
She glanced toward the grey Atlantic beyond the hills.
“But imagine that wee bottle wandering across the ocean all those years.”
Atlantic City — One Month Later
“Well, it’s been grand, Anita,” Murdo said, raising his glass. “I’ll remember this holiday the rest of my life.”
The newspaper had flown Murdo and Kirsty across the Atlantic for the story. The interviews had been embarrassing, the hotel bewildering, but the whisky plentiful.
“Don’t make it sound final,” Anita said softly. “There’ll be other times.”
Murdo hesitated, then took her hand.
“I know you mean that, lass. But we live different lives. Those houses you showed me — their gardens are bigger than my fields. I don’t own a farm like the papers said.”
Anita studied him.
“I hate it here, Murdo. My husband had money. I don’t.”
Murdo closed his eyes briefly.
“We’ve only known each other two weeks.”
One Year Later — Invernaver
The road from Inverness wound endlessly through narrow single-track lanes.
“This place feels like another planet,” Marilyn muttered.
“It’s beautiful,” Anita said.
They followed directions down a rough track toward Murdo’s croft.
Voices carried from the house.
“…you should go back to university!” Murdo shouted.
Tom stormed outside and nearly collided with them.
Inside, Kirsty dropped her knitting in astonishment.
“Anita! Marilyn!”
Murdo stood blinking.
“Well,” he said at last. “Welcome to the Highlands.”
The Discovery
The next morning, Murdo burst into the croft.
“Marilyn didn’t return to the hotel last night. The car’s gone. Where’s Tom?”
They hurried to the camper van.
Inside, everything was neatly arranged.
On a shelf stood the old blue bottle.
A piece of paper protruded from the neck.
Kirsty reached it first.
She read the note.
Then she smiled.
Murdo grabbed the paper.
“We’ve decided to go and get a life,” he read slowly. “Maybe you should try it sometime.”
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
The blue bottle stood between them, its sea-worn glass catching the light from the window.
Murdo turned it slowly in his hands.
“Five years,” he murmured.
Kirsty nodded.
“Aye.”
She looked toward the grey Atlantic beyond the fields.
“Some journeys take longer than others.”
Murdo set the bottle back on the shelf.
“Maybe one day,” he said quietly, “when we’re old enough to know better…”
glancing toward the distant sea. “…we’ll send it back.”