Barry’s Galleon Ship Disaster
Barry, my father, was a man of varied interests and very much into his hobbies.
Some of them were illegal. For instance, a few times, he was caught exposing
himself in the streets to women he fancied. He sold rugs and was also a
pyromaniac. He would often vanish for days and weeks, either because he was in
prison or away at a secretive and menacing awayday with his black magic group.
There are stories my mum told me about him, where they’d kidnap individuals in
a black transit van. But I’m not sure if that’s true. There is so much about
him that is so outlandishly unbelievable. But, the bits of evidence I know are
the events that have materially changed my life. He was a local legend, and his
reputation overshadowed the rest of the family.
Whenever we walked around town, it was a strange experience for me, my younger
brother, and my mum. Some people who knew about us and Barry’s unprincipled
activities would keep their distance as if we were about to infect them with a
dark, evil curse. Sometimes, it was isolating, like we were pariahs, but at
other times, there was an essence of empowerment due to the feeling that people
were afraid of us. The problem with being marked as different, scary or
dangerous is that it attracts the types of individuals who find the notion of
it exciting for them, and when you're a young child, that’s the last thing you
need.
It was emotionally reassuring when Barry engaged his talents with less
insidious ventures. A hobby of his that also involved me now and then was his
plane-spotting exploits. He would take me to the airport to watch planes
landing and flying off. He watched it all through his binoculars while noting
the observed aircraft in his notepad. I was bored, and he was always very
excited. His fascination with planes extended to model making. He was
incredibly proud that he made his model planes from scratch, not assembly kits.
He would buy balsa wood and cut it with a craft knife to make model aircraft.
He made many different types. Some would be painfully intricate biplanes
replicating the Wright brothers’ first successful aeroplane launched in 1903 to
WW11 aircraft, which seemed less detailed but still displayed high quality and
artful technique. These were the moments I remember as notable when he was calm
and lost in his craft. He was good at it, and you could feel how enchanted he
was by the whole experience.
Another recreation Barry enjoyed was painting. Just like he was obsessed with
aircraft in the singular sense, he spent much of his creative time on oil
painting. His primary focus was Galleon ships, huge, multi-decked sailing ships
and armed cargo carriers from the 16th to 18th centuries. Again, he was
mesmerised by his chosen subject and spent many hours painting different
galleon scenes in sea-based settings, with large waves crashing at the side of
the vessels. It was all very dramatic. One day, I entered the room as he
painted his latest masterpiece with a slow, intense dedication to detail. I
suddenly noticed something with all the paintings. I nervously twitched,
knowing how proud he was of them.
I wasn’t sure whether to tell him what I had spotted. But I had to. I couldn’t
help myself. I told him nervously that the ships had no wind in their sails;
they were straight, not as breezy as they should be in turbulent winds. He
stopped painting, slowly gazed at all his works, and dropped his arm holding
the paintbrush. Barry released a big sigh, and then the room fell silent. He
turned round and looked at me with a deep hatred, and it felt like his eyes
were burrowing into my skull. Then, he flipped and smashed up all his canvases
amongst other objects in the room. Thankfully, he didn’t hit me. He may have
been talented at many things, but painting wasn’t one of them.
A section from the book Feral Class by Marc Garrett. To be published by Minor
Compositions in 2025.
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