In the language of the sea,
when the tide pulls back and a boat sinks into mud and sand,
they say:
“The boat has gone loham.”
Not drowned, not free —
caught between two worlds:
the water that has left, and the water that has not yet returned.
But the moment the sea breathes again,
the tide rises,
and the waves kiss its sides,
the boat breaks free from the mud and moves once more.
They say:
“It has come out of lohami.”
Maybe life is the same.
Sometimes… you just need to wait for the sea to return.
Khalo and the Old Boat
The old boat — the same Jalboot that years ago, when the sea was angry,
could no longer reach the water.
Its wooden skin cracked with salt, its ropes rotten,
its paint faded by sun and wind.
Everyone said it was finished,
that it had gone loham,
and should be left for the sea to swallow.
But Khalo couldn’t leave it behind —
just as no one can abandon their mother
as long as there is still breath in her chest.
That day he returned to see the old boat again.
He ran his hand over the damp wood and said:
“If the sea has forgiven you,
then you must return too…
your story isn’t over.”
From far away, the sound of a Damam drum rose —
soft, mournful,
like the faint heartbeat of someone returning to life.
And Khalo felt the old boat, despite all its wounds, was still alive —
the same way his mother, after days of silence,
took a deep breath
and showed she was not leaving so easily.
As her beautiful doctor had said:
“Your mother is a fighter.”
Now he was taking her home —
his mother from the edge of death,
and the boat from the depth of the salty sea.
Both had returned from the border of non-existence,
both carrying the scent of salt and life.
One day, when the southern wind blew and the sea grew calm,
Khalo took the rope again.
Gently, he rocked the boat —
as if waking someone from a long sleep.
The waves touched the forehead of the wooden hull
as though the sea itself had missed it.
And the boat, with all its scars,
slowly, quietly,
lifted itself from the mud and moved.
Khalo smiled and whispered:
“See, Mother? You can still return…
the sea is still waiting for you.”
The old boat sighed —
a sound like wet wood remembering how to breathe:
“You thought I was dead, Khalo?
I was only tired…
the humidity stole my breath,
the waves carried my strength away,
but I never let go of the sea.”
The sea laughed — soft and salty:
“I always knew you’d return…
you belong to me.
No matter how cracked or exhausted,
you still smell of me.”
A wave nudged the boat playfully:
“Ah, but you said it was finished!
Everyone said you’d gone loham, no life left…
but look at you now —
still able to move,
still able to smile.”
The old boat closed its imaginary eyes and whispered:
“I was tired from the weight of years,
from journeys that led nowhere,
from cargo that never reached its destination.
But now…
I feel the sea is no longer my enemy.
It’s like it called me back itself.”
The humid southern wind — the Sharji —
blew softly and said:
“I was with you always —
in the heavy heat of noon and in the moonless nights.
But now there is a different scent in the air…
a scent of returning, a scent of life.”
The sea smiled a smile only the waves could understand:
“Welcome back, Mother…
I will begin with you once more.”
And the old boat trembled —
like a woman who remembers how to breathe after years of forgetting.
Khalo stepped onto the wooden planks.
They groaned beneath him —
the sound of an ancient breath returning.
He touched its side and said:
“Ah Mother… I told you you’d return.
Neither I nor the sea ever gave up on you.”
The old boat answered through its salt-soaked cracks:
“Khalo… you came so late.
I endured the winds, the waves, the silences.
I thought no one could hear me anymore.”
Khalo leaned forward, resting his forehead on the wounded wood:
“I heard you, Mother…
but the paths were closed by the sharji,
and I myself was half-dead.”
A gentle wave touched Khalo’s foot —
like a hand trying to make peace.
The sea said:
“He came late, but he came.
And that means your roots still live in me.”
The boat said:
“Khalo… I am no longer that light young boat,
but my heart is still the sea.”
Khalo smiled, tears gathering in his eyes:
“It doesn’t matter if you’re wounded or weathered.
What matters is you still understand the sea.”
The sharji blew again,
filling the air with the scent of salt and life.
And in that moment,
there was no sea, no boat, no Khalo —
only one thing:
the sound of returning.
Night rose slowly from the horizon,
the pale moon peeking through clouds,
and the sea — like a mother who, after tears,
has finally found her calm —
spread herself across the darkness.
Khalo sat on the edge of the boat.
No fear, no hurry —
just listening
to the conversation between sea, wave, and wood.
The old boat, its voice tired but alive, said:
“Khalo… do you remember the night you left me?
The wind was from the south,
and I was more exhausted than ever.
I said if I go, don’t forget me.
But I think I was the one who forgot how to return.”
Khalo whispered:
“Mother… no one who once gave me bread, patience, and the sea
can ever be forgotten.
You weren’t just a boat —
you were shelter.”
A wave tapped softly against the hull:
“Khalo, won’t you sing a Shroveh tonight?
One of the old ones —
the ones that smell of wind and tears
and keep the memory of the lost alive?”
Khalo looked up, smiled, and said:
“I’ll sing — so even the sea listens.”
And the Shroveh began —
rising from the tired depth of his chest,
like someone breathing life back into the earth.
It curled into the waves,
the moon bent down to hear it,
the sharji turned into mist,
and the old boat exhaled a long, light sigh.
The sea said:
“Do you see now, Khalo?
Returning doesn’t mean going back to the shore —
it means returning to your own voice,
your own life.”
Khalo murmured:
“Yes, Mother…
if a man can still sing,
he is not drowned.”
Dawn crept over the Gulf.
Grey morning light spread on the damp wooden beams,
and the sea, after all its conversation,
rested gentle
like a mother who, after giving birth in pain,
finally sees her child smile.
Khalo was still awake,
eyes red from the long night,
but a light burned in him
that had been extinguished for years.
He looked to the horizon and said:
“Mother… it’s time to go —
not out of fear of the waves,
but out of faith in them.”
The old boat whispered:
“Khalo…
I am lighter now.
I’ve poured my pain back into the sea.
If I must go,
I will go strong this time — not afraid.”
A gentle wave pressed its hand against the hull —
not wild, not playful —
but like a blessing.
The sea said:
“Go, Mother…
leave your Shroveh inside me,
so whenever the waves rise,
they will sing your return.”
The old boat trembled,
the wood creaked,
and Khalo felt himself trembling inside it.
He kissed the salt-soaked wood and whispered:
“Go… but know this time, I’m going with you.”
The sharji blew,
morning light spread across the water,
and the old boat — silently,
slowly —
slid into the heart of the sea.
The waves opened the way,
the sea kissed it,
and Khalo’s Shroveh faded into the horizon —
not in sorrow,
but in rebirth.
Khalo lifted his head toward the place where the boat disappeared and whispered:
“Returning means being reborn inside what you love —
not to the shore,
but to the sea,
to the voice,
to the mother.”
And then the Damam beat again in his mind —
not to wake the earth,
but to remind him:
he was still alive.
Naser Kamali
Royal Free Hospital, London
9 November 2025
Glossary of Southern Iranian Maritime Terms (Bushehri Dialect)
Lanj (لنج)
A traditional wooden sea vessel used in the Persian Gulf — larger than a boat, smaller than a modern ship.
Used for long sea journeys, fishing, and trade.
Jalboot (جالبوت)
A small wooden boat, lighter and faster than a Lanj.
Used for short trips, fishing near the shore, and shallow-water travel.
Sharji (شرجی)
The heavy, wet, suffocating coastal humidity typical of the Persian Gulf.
A thick heat that slows movement and fills the air like steam.
Damam (دمام)
A traditional double-headed drum used in southern Iranian ceremonies — both mourning rituals and celebrations.
Its deep, repetitive rhythm is known as the heartbeat of the Gulf.
Shroveh / Shervah (شروه)
A traditional two-line sung poem, full of longing and emotion.
Often expressing love, separation, loss, or memories of the sea —
a kind of southern Iranian blues.