John came up from below deck and surveyed his surroundings. Nothing but water, again.
Not that it was a bad thing, John loved the ocean, he’d been born of it. His Uncle used to tell him salt ran through the blood in his veins in place of all the white blood cells. When he was a kid he’d run barefoot over his uncle’s yacht, jumping from the polished wooden railings to the top deck and down again, as nimble as a chimp at home in his tree.
The cold ice blue water sloshed up onto the hull of the 27 foot sail boat with Savior scribed across the sides. There was something to be said about the cold Atlantic water. It had a magical hue to the color of it. White ice caps churned over and tumbled in waves that criss-crossed the ocean’s surface for miles, choppy it was at best, horrific and terrible as an angry God at it’s worst. John took hold of the old teak helm with it’s twelve points, his hand swinging it back and forth as he ocean propped him up and down, he held a hand over his eyes to hold back the white glare of the overcast sky.
It had been three weeks since he’d lost sight of the coast, when he’d left port of La Rochelle. Before France, he’d been wearing an open button up terry cloth shirt, his skin tanned a deep bronze with a pair of swimmer’s shorts and Birkenstock leather sandals. Now he was bundled in layers amongst cold salt water, and a terrible wind that whipped and snapped the sail and his scarf, too. But still, a smile wrapped his face.
Before France, it had been Madrid. Madrid had been wonderful, the tequila ran like water and the women seldom wore much clothing, the heat beating down on supple bodies, sweat glistening off wash board stomachs. He’d stayed in a small port by the cliffs, a town with a drawbridge, a winery and a hotel. After Vigo it had been Gijon and Santander and Bilbao. He’d run his course in Barque Country when he’d stuck his hand up the black skirt of a married woman. After that he’d run out of money in La Rochelle and had worked the docks for a slip and a meal until he’d been able to get in touch with his Uncle and have a bit of money wired to him.
Ahead, more waves threatened the tiny vessel and streams of sunlight broke through the clouds in spots like holes in sky. The ocean’s constant sloshing kept the boat rocking rhythmically to and fro, up and down like the world was moving to a slow waltz, and he was just a lonely dancer along for the ride.
This constant cold puts quite a damper on the mood though. I’m already thinking like a lonely old man.
The only excitement he’d had lately was three days ago when a squad of bottlenose dolphins had ridden along side the sailboat, racing it, dancing back and forth beneath the ocean’s crisp surface. John was pretty sure that they had been doing the waltz.
In La Rochelle, Philipe, a kindly old man, had agreed to take him on for two nights in the old fishing port in exchange for a little work. He was pleasant enough and drunk on wine more often than not, but he spoke too quickly and John’s french wasn’t exactly what you would call fluent. The only English Philipe knew was from movies and some American Music.
Philipe had him fixing the cracked and missing boards in the docks, hammering throughout day in the simmering sunlight. When the yellow sun would begin to break the horizon in the west, Philipe would ask him inside and share a glass of brandy with him by a small black potbelly stove, surrounded by photo’s of his late wife. They wouldn’t talk much, well, Philipe would, rapidly, but the exchange of information was one sided; only if you didn’t count John’s constant nodding of a feigned understanding as a response, that is.
John watched his compass on the dashboard, he was due North. He supposed that was as good as any of the other directions. Points on a compass were all the same to him. They all led somewhere.
His eye caught his left hand, holding the ten o’clock point on the teak helm. It was tanned to a deep bronze, the fine hairs that were once a darker brown had become white, bleached by the Madrid sun. A year ago there had been a noticeable difference on his ring finger, a circle of untouched white skin had wrapped the flesh, but John had done all he could to eradicate the vitamin D deficiency in that small, frail limb. He’d drunk that pale skin away, sailed the open sea, depleted his life savings, whored with women whose names he rarely knew, nor could he pronounce had he known them, and all for what? This?
This.
This was freedom at it’s truest form, right at the heart of it. He wasn’t tethered to a single living thing nor possession, save for his small reliable boat. He didn’t live by the clocks and schedules and calenders that ruled people’s short, insignificant little lives. He didn’t know what the fall NBC line-up was going to be, or who’d been drafted in the NBA as of late. Hell, he didn’t even care what wars were being fought. The only thing that concerned him were the twelve points of his universe, steering his life in an unknown direction. A direction which was the same as any other as far as he was concerned.
Not that it was a bad thing, John loved the ocean, he’d been born of it. His Uncle used to tell him salt ran through the blood in his veins in place of all the white blood cells. When he was a kid he’d run barefoot over his uncle’s yacht, jumping from the polished wooden railings to the top deck and down again, as nimble as a chimp at home in his tree.
The cold ice blue water sloshed up onto the hull of the 27 foot sail boat with Savior scribed across the sides. There was something to be said about the cold Atlantic water. It had a magical hue to the color of it. White ice caps churned over and tumbled in waves that criss-crossed the ocean’s surface for miles, choppy it was at best, horrific and terrible as an angry God at it’s worst. John took hold of the old teak helm with it’s twelve points, his hand swinging it back and forth as he ocean propped him up and down, he held a hand over his eyes to hold back the white glare of the overcast sky.
It had been three weeks since he’d lost sight of the coast, when he’d left port of La Rochelle. Before France, he’d been wearing an open button up terry cloth shirt, his skin tanned a deep bronze with a pair of swimmer’s shorts and Birkenstock leather sandals. Now he was bundled in layers amongst cold salt water, and a terrible wind that whipped and snapped the sail and his scarf, too. But still, a smile wrapped his face.
Before France, it had been Madrid. Madrid had been wonderful, the tequila ran like water and the women seldom wore much clothing, the heat beating down on supple bodies, sweat glistening off wash board stomachs. He’d stayed in a small port by the cliffs, a town with a drawbridge, a winery and a hotel. After Vigo it had been Gijon and Santander and Bilbao. He’d run his course in Barque Country when he’d stuck his hand up the black skirt of a married woman. After that he’d run out of money in La Rochelle and had worked the docks for a slip and a meal until he’d been able to get in touch with his Uncle and have a bit of money wired to him.
Ahead, more waves threatened the tiny vessel and streams of sunlight broke through the clouds in spots like holes in sky. The ocean’s constant sloshing kept the boat rocking rhythmically to and fro, up and down like the world was moving to a slow waltz, and he was just a lonely dancer along for the ride.
This constant cold puts quite a damper on the mood though. I’m already thinking like a lonely old man.
The only excitement he’d had lately was three days ago when a squad of bottlenose dolphins had ridden along side the sailboat, racing it, dancing back and forth beneath the ocean’s crisp surface. John was pretty sure that they had been doing the waltz.
In La Rochelle, Philipe, a kindly old man, had agreed to take him on for two nights in the old fishing port in exchange for a little work. He was pleasant enough and drunk on wine more often than not, but he spoke too quickly and John’s french wasn’t exactly what you would call fluent. The only English Philipe knew was from movies and some American Music.
Philipe had him fixing the cracked and missing boards in the docks, hammering throughout day in the simmering sunlight. When the yellow sun would begin to break the horizon in the west, Philipe would ask him inside and share a glass of brandy with him by a small black potbelly stove, surrounded by photo’s of his late wife. They wouldn’t talk much, well, Philipe would, rapidly, but the exchange of information was one sided; only if you didn’t count John’s constant nodding of a feigned understanding as a response, that is.
John watched his compass on the dashboard, he was due North. He supposed that was as good as any of the other directions. Points on a compass were all the same to him. They all led somewhere.
His eye caught his left hand, holding the ten o’clock point on the teak helm. It was tanned to a deep bronze, the fine hairs that were once a darker brown had become white, bleached by the Madrid sun. A year ago there had been a noticeable difference on his ring finger, a circle of untouched white skin had wrapped the flesh, but John had done all he could to eradicate the vitamin D deficiency in that small, frail limb. He’d drunk that pale skin away, sailed the open sea, depleted his life savings, whored with women whose names he rarely knew, nor could he pronounce had he known them, and all for what? This?
This.
This was freedom at it’s truest form, right at the heart of it. He wasn’t tethered to a single living thing nor possession, save for his small reliable boat. He didn’t live by the clocks and schedules and calenders that ruled people’s short, insignificant little lives. He didn’t know what the fall NBC line-up was going to be, or who’d been drafted in the NBA as of late. Hell, he didn’t even care what wars were being fought. The only thing that concerned him were the twelve points of his universe, steering his life in an unknown direction. A direction which was the same as any other as far as he was concerned.
Layla had been beautiful.
When John lay asleep below deck he still dreamed of the way she would tuck a fine clasp of auburn hair over her ear when she smiled. Her smile was one of those ones that, right off the bat, you could tell if it was fake, because a smile is anything but the way your lips slide up over your teeth, thousands of tiny muscles pulling at your skin like puppeteers in a street show.
A smile was all in the eyes.
Crows feet aren’t a sign of old age, John thought, but the signs of a happy, laugh filled life. If there had anything going for him during their time together it had been the ability to make her laugh at the drop of a pin. Those puppeteers worked overtime when John was on the scene.
It only worked though because they were always on the same level. See, when something happens to someone, be it the slightest of occurrences, people have instant reactions, thoughts, pure instinct and personality take over and give you a natural reaction. No two people synapses react the same way to the same thing.
But John and Layla’s did, because they worked on the same level and that’s what drove their relationship forward, that ability to know one another so deeply, so trustfully, came from the level they operated on.
That was why it had been so hard to believe it when she had handed him her ring one day and said it was over. That she no longer loved him. That there was somebody else.
That she left me.
“John, are you listening to me?” She was stooped back in a black velvet chair. They were back in their favorite restaurant in New York City, Resistance. She was wearing the black dress he’d picked out for her. “John?”
He looked down to his open hand on the table, the small white gold ring in his palm. “Y-you’re kidding, right?” He choked on the words.
She exhaled deeply. The worry lines in her forehead bunched up and he could tell she was having a hard time with this, they were creases she only got when she was majorly stressed out about something. “No. It’s for real.” She reached into the Luis Vuiton clutch bag that she brought with her. It matched the dress. She pulled out a key and slid it across the table. “I already took my name off the lease.”
He stared down at the key and then his palm again. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. “B-but...”
“John, it’s not anything you did, really. It’s just, we’re not who we used to be, you know?”
“No, I don’t ‘know,’” he said, incredulous. “I think we’re exactly who we used to be,” he was getting angry. Was he the only one who felt like this was crazy, absolute bullshit? “We’re still us.” He reached his right hand across the table and tried to take hold of hers but she pulled it back and placed it in her lap, her front teeth bit into her red lip.
After a moment of still silence, the only sound were forks scratching plates and wine glasses clinking, she said,”No, you are,” her eyes were glistening and for the first time, her crows feet didn’t look like laughter, but pain. “You’re exactly the man I married. You still dream of doing great things, being this great person, but you’re not. You don’t even try. You just float by while I grow and get older and try new things, but you’re stuck in this one dimensional space.” Now, she was the one getting angry. “For God’s sake, John, we’re not fucking twenty anymore!”
With those echoing last words he woke in the cabin, his fists clutched, sweating. The boat was dark and creaked as the waves pushed and pulled it back and forth in their waltz rhythm. He opened his left hand, which had turned white with rage, but it was empty.
Only a dream, Johnny boy. Wake up and smell the salt.
So now, he stood on the deck, admiring the tanned ring finger on his left hand. He’d thrown his into the ocean, somewhere off the Florida Keys and regretted it the moment it was airborn. He’d pawned hers. The diamond had even been his mother’s, but still, it was too painful to keep so he’d gotten what he could for it - and everything else for that matter - and he’d bought a boat and set sail for the open sea. A new life.
The Atlantic.
At first it had been difficult, diving back into the deep recesses of his memory, trying to remember what it was like to have sea legs and forget the love of land. He’d had to brush up on his knots again; a bowline, anchor hitch an Ashley stopper knot and a thousand others that ended in ‘hitch’. After a couple google searches though, he was well on his way to remembering.
The rocky, choppy water off the coast of Miami had been the worst, he remembered(well, not the worst, that came later). He’d been practicing, sailing from bay to alcove, but he’d been constantly sick for nearly a week, retching and tossing whatever he’d eaten over the side, streaking the Savior with spaghetti-o’s and half digested oreo’s.
Then, one day when he woke, he came from below deck and suddenly the shaky sickness was gone. He took several deep breaths of salty air and exhaled, smiling. He was back.
For nearly two months prior, he’d spent most of his time at Border’s, reading books about crossing the vast sea, the ocean that had been swallowing up ships and boats alike for thousands of years. He’d also been brushing up on his diesel maintenance, his generator knowledge and basic survival skills that were going to play a crucial part in his living to see the other side of the blue.
He would start in Antigua, in the West Indies and plan to head downwind for most of the 3,000 miles before ending up in La Gomera. He would set sail December 6th and never look back.
After selling all his things, his condo included, he’d started spending on anything he thought he might need in his quest. Radios and scanners and electronics of all sorts. He’d had a better motor and generator installed, water pumps and refrigerators, replaced bits and pieces here and there. He had the best navigation system this side of Timbuktu installed and read the manual cover to cover. He’d even christened the Savior with a bottle of Crystal under the stars the night before he left.
Nothing but the best, he’d told himself.
The only person who had been there to see him off was his Uncle Ron, the one he’d grown up around. In his younger days he’d been a bear of a man with a belly and used to remind John of the Skipper from Giligan’s Island, except he had a patchy blonde beard. He’d been easy to laugh and easy to entertain, always taking John somewhere to do things and spend money. He’d fallen into investments in the 70’s and had done quite well for himself in up and coming businesses that soon became franchises and then became global empires. But now, he was stooped, and John had a good three inches on him. He still had the same rosy smile, but the laughs were less frequent. He was getting old.
Ron traded a withered grip with him and smiled,”So, you’re off, huh? No way in gettin’ ya to quit this nonsense, is there?”
“Not a chance,” he said, standing on the dock, still swimming from the christening the night before.”Besides, what the hell else would I do?”
“You could always work for me, that’s something isn’t it?” he said, holding the hand shake for a moment too long, trying to drive something home.
John put his other hand over their handshake and said,”Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’m prepared.”
“Bullshit,” his Uncle spat, the smile still there. It faltered for a moment.”Sailor’s prepare their whole lives for trips like these, John, and you’re thinking you can just throw money at it and you’ll be fine. Like some gold cloak of safety or something.” His Uncle let go of his hands and dug them deep into his jacket pockets.”In all my years of havin’ and spendin’ money that’s one thing I did learn, I think.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, hoping to assuage his Uncle’s concerns. “I’ve got the satellite phone, remember?”
Except he no longer had that satellite phone. The third night in, during a night stroke of stormy weather, it had gone over the side along with his warmest coat. He’d been stupid leaving it up on the top deck like that, like some careless teenager with a skateboard, and he’d paid the price.
He would sleep most often during the day, when the weather was at it’s weakest and only in spurts, an hour or two tops, the idea that he could wake in a cabin rapidly filling with water always close behind his sleepy eyelids. He’d stocked up on gallons of water, but also a large supply of alcohol, so he was also drunk a great deal and tended to pass out at the helm, slumped in his fighting chair that he’d had rigged, only to be awoken by the snap crack of his sail.
Some days he’d pull a line behind him, large rods that had been aboard the boat from the previous owner, and eat on fresh fish at night, seasoning it with lemon and salt and cooking it over his small propane burner. He’d have powdered potatoes and drink wine with it, when the weather was still enough, and stare up at a sky filled with limitless stars, Sinatra playing on his ipod dock, sailing out over the dark waters. He’d get drunk and sing but eventually it would lead to weeping because that’s when he thought of Layla the most, how amazed she’d be that this is where he was now and how she should be there enjoying it with him. He’d thrown several glasses over in bouts of brash reasoning and quickly regretted it. He didn’t have many.
About ten days into his journey, he found himself heading into a tropical storm of sorts. It was near three in the morning and he’d been drinking again when he saw the tips of white caps in the distance, the gusts of warm wind picking up, the sound of crashing water getting louder. He’d turned off the music and just listened to it. He knew what was coming so he took in the moments of peace he had left, the calm before the literal storm.
Soon waves were crashing aboard the small vessel, first just over the bow, then over starboard and port, soaking John with warm salt water. The boat would head up the face and then dip hard as it came down, the next wave already coming head on. He’d go up and down, each one with a little more ferocity, a little more vertical.
Something hit John smack in the chest with a thwack! Then something was flopping around on the deck by his feet, making a flurry of noise. John turned his light at the ground and found a flying fish choking for air. They were literally flying onto the boat, coming directly out of the oncoming waves.
The waves were coming harder and rain started to fall in sheets. John pulled the hood of a slicker up over his head and gritted his teeth, squinting into the wind, heading blindly into the darkness of the storm. Suddenly it was so loud he couldn’t hear his own screaming as he yelled. “Bring it on!” he roared. The sound of wind and rain and waves was deafening. All around him God waged war with the sea, and he was caught in the middle of it, trying to steer his little boat to the clearing.
Thunder cracked and bolt of lightning struck in the distance, a shock of blue that left a strip of purple over John’s vision. A wave crashed over the head of the boat, John gripped the helm hard and it was all he could do to keep himself upright. A foot of water sloshed over the deck, threatening to rip everything away and over the side. “Is that all you got?! I’m made of stronger shit than that!”
As if in answer, two waves simultaneously hit the boat, from different angles, and John went down hard, sliding across the deck and into the railing, a sharp pain shooting up his shoulder. He fumbled on his knees and got back up, he had to lean into the wind to grab the helm which was spinning wildly, all the while the boat still going straight up and straight down and back again.
This isn’t how I leave this world.
He grabbed two points of his universe and leaned forward, letting out a hysterical laugh as he steered the Savior straight into the depths of hell. As each new wave hit the deck, he’d let out a battle cry, holding on as tight as he could. He throttled the small twin engines he’d installed and revved them hard, catching air off the next wave and crashing into the one after that. I’m actually having fun, he realized. Death is at my door, and I’m playing ding-dong-ditch!
Soon, the waves seemed to die down. The rain let up to a light mist and suddenly he could hear himself think again. But the adrenaline was still there, pumping through his body. So, he cracked a cold beer and guzzled it, foam churning over his lips and running down his neck until the bottle was gone. He had several more as he steered the Savior through the clearing and beyond into the distance, into the dawn of morning light.
I made it. I lived to tell the tale.
Not once during the storm or for the twenty four hours after, did John realize that his navigation system had shorted and that he was no longer headed for La Gomera, but somewhere else entirely. That destiny had intervened and was about to send him spiraling.
When John lay asleep below deck he still dreamed of the way she would tuck a fine clasp of auburn hair over her ear when she smiled. Her smile was one of those ones that, right off the bat, you could tell if it was fake, because a smile is anything but the way your lips slide up over your teeth, thousands of tiny muscles pulling at your skin like puppeteers in a street show.
A smile was all in the eyes.
Crows feet aren’t a sign of old age, John thought, but the signs of a happy, laugh filled life. If there had anything going for him during their time together it had been the ability to make her laugh at the drop of a pin. Those puppeteers worked overtime when John was on the scene.
It only worked though because they were always on the same level. See, when something happens to someone, be it the slightest of occurrences, people have instant reactions, thoughts, pure instinct and personality take over and give you a natural reaction. No two people synapses react the same way to the same thing.
But John and Layla’s did, because they worked on the same level and that’s what drove their relationship forward, that ability to know one another so deeply, so trustfully, came from the level they operated on.
That was why it had been so hard to believe it when she had handed him her ring one day and said it was over. That she no longer loved him. That there was somebody else.
That she left me.
“John, are you listening to me?” She was stooped back in a black velvet chair. They were back in their favorite restaurant in New York City, Resistance. She was wearing the black dress he’d picked out for her. “John?”
He looked down to his open hand on the table, the small white gold ring in his palm. “Y-you’re kidding, right?” He choked on the words.
She exhaled deeply. The worry lines in her forehead bunched up and he could tell she was having a hard time with this, they were creases she only got when she was majorly stressed out about something. “No. It’s for real.” She reached into the Luis Vuiton clutch bag that she brought with her. It matched the dress. She pulled out a key and slid it across the table. “I already took my name off the lease.”
He stared down at the key and then his palm again. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be. “B-but...”
“John, it’s not anything you did, really. It’s just, we’re not who we used to be, you know?”
“No, I don’t ‘know,’” he said, incredulous. “I think we’re exactly who we used to be,” he was getting angry. Was he the only one who felt like this was crazy, absolute bullshit? “We’re still us.” He reached his right hand across the table and tried to take hold of hers but she pulled it back and placed it in her lap, her front teeth bit into her red lip.
After a moment of still silence, the only sound were forks scratching plates and wine glasses clinking, she said,”No, you are,” her eyes were glistening and for the first time, her crows feet didn’t look like laughter, but pain. “You’re exactly the man I married. You still dream of doing great things, being this great person, but you’re not. You don’t even try. You just float by while I grow and get older and try new things, but you’re stuck in this one dimensional space.” Now, she was the one getting angry. “For God’s sake, John, we’re not fucking twenty anymore!”
With those echoing last words he woke in the cabin, his fists clutched, sweating. The boat was dark and creaked as the waves pushed and pulled it back and forth in their waltz rhythm. He opened his left hand, which had turned white with rage, but it was empty.
Only a dream, Johnny boy. Wake up and smell the salt.
So now, he stood on the deck, admiring the tanned ring finger on his left hand. He’d thrown his into the ocean, somewhere off the Florida Keys and regretted it the moment it was airborn. He’d pawned hers. The diamond had even been his mother’s, but still, it was too painful to keep so he’d gotten what he could for it - and everything else for that matter - and he’d bought a boat and set sail for the open sea. A new life.
The Atlantic.
At first it had been difficult, diving back into the deep recesses of his memory, trying to remember what it was like to have sea legs and forget the love of land. He’d had to brush up on his knots again; a bowline, anchor hitch an Ashley stopper knot and a thousand others that ended in ‘hitch’. After a couple google searches though, he was well on his way to remembering.
The rocky, choppy water off the coast of Miami had been the worst, he remembered(well, not the worst, that came later). He’d been practicing, sailing from bay to alcove, but he’d been constantly sick for nearly a week, retching and tossing whatever he’d eaten over the side, streaking the Savior with spaghetti-o’s and half digested oreo’s.
Then, one day when he woke, he came from below deck and suddenly the shaky sickness was gone. He took several deep breaths of salty air and exhaled, smiling. He was back.
For nearly two months prior, he’d spent most of his time at Border’s, reading books about crossing the vast sea, the ocean that had been swallowing up ships and boats alike for thousands of years. He’d also been brushing up on his diesel maintenance, his generator knowledge and basic survival skills that were going to play a crucial part in his living to see the other side of the blue.
He would start in Antigua, in the West Indies and plan to head downwind for most of the 3,000 miles before ending up in La Gomera. He would set sail December 6th and never look back.
After selling all his things, his condo included, he’d started spending on anything he thought he might need in his quest. Radios and scanners and electronics of all sorts. He’d had a better motor and generator installed, water pumps and refrigerators, replaced bits and pieces here and there. He had the best navigation system this side of Timbuktu installed and read the manual cover to cover. He’d even christened the Savior with a bottle of Crystal under the stars the night before he left.
Nothing but the best, he’d told himself.
The only person who had been there to see him off was his Uncle Ron, the one he’d grown up around. In his younger days he’d been a bear of a man with a belly and used to remind John of the Skipper from Giligan’s Island, except he had a patchy blonde beard. He’d been easy to laugh and easy to entertain, always taking John somewhere to do things and spend money. He’d fallen into investments in the 70’s and had done quite well for himself in up and coming businesses that soon became franchises and then became global empires. But now, he was stooped, and John had a good three inches on him. He still had the same rosy smile, but the laughs were less frequent. He was getting old.
Ron traded a withered grip with him and smiled,”So, you’re off, huh? No way in gettin’ ya to quit this nonsense, is there?”
“Not a chance,” he said, standing on the dock, still swimming from the christening the night before.”Besides, what the hell else would I do?”
“You could always work for me, that’s something isn’t it?” he said, holding the hand shake for a moment too long, trying to drive something home.
John put his other hand over their handshake and said,”Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’m prepared.”
“Bullshit,” his Uncle spat, the smile still there. It faltered for a moment.”Sailor’s prepare their whole lives for trips like these, John, and you’re thinking you can just throw money at it and you’ll be fine. Like some gold cloak of safety or something.” His Uncle let go of his hands and dug them deep into his jacket pockets.”In all my years of havin’ and spendin’ money that’s one thing I did learn, I think.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said, hoping to assuage his Uncle’s concerns. “I’ve got the satellite phone, remember?”
Except he no longer had that satellite phone. The third night in, during a night stroke of stormy weather, it had gone over the side along with his warmest coat. He’d been stupid leaving it up on the top deck like that, like some careless teenager with a skateboard, and he’d paid the price.
He would sleep most often during the day, when the weather was at it’s weakest and only in spurts, an hour or two tops, the idea that he could wake in a cabin rapidly filling with water always close behind his sleepy eyelids. He’d stocked up on gallons of water, but also a large supply of alcohol, so he was also drunk a great deal and tended to pass out at the helm, slumped in his fighting chair that he’d had rigged, only to be awoken by the snap crack of his sail.
Some days he’d pull a line behind him, large rods that had been aboard the boat from the previous owner, and eat on fresh fish at night, seasoning it with lemon and salt and cooking it over his small propane burner. He’d have powdered potatoes and drink wine with it, when the weather was still enough, and stare up at a sky filled with limitless stars, Sinatra playing on his ipod dock, sailing out over the dark waters. He’d get drunk and sing but eventually it would lead to weeping because that’s when he thought of Layla the most, how amazed she’d be that this is where he was now and how she should be there enjoying it with him. He’d thrown several glasses over in bouts of brash reasoning and quickly regretted it. He didn’t have many.
About ten days into his journey, he found himself heading into a tropical storm of sorts. It was near three in the morning and he’d been drinking again when he saw the tips of white caps in the distance, the gusts of warm wind picking up, the sound of crashing water getting louder. He’d turned off the music and just listened to it. He knew what was coming so he took in the moments of peace he had left, the calm before the literal storm.
Soon waves were crashing aboard the small vessel, first just over the bow, then over starboard and port, soaking John with warm salt water. The boat would head up the face and then dip hard as it came down, the next wave already coming head on. He’d go up and down, each one with a little more ferocity, a little more vertical.
Something hit John smack in the chest with a thwack! Then something was flopping around on the deck by his feet, making a flurry of noise. John turned his light at the ground and found a flying fish choking for air. They were literally flying onto the boat, coming directly out of the oncoming waves.
The waves were coming harder and rain started to fall in sheets. John pulled the hood of a slicker up over his head and gritted his teeth, squinting into the wind, heading blindly into the darkness of the storm. Suddenly it was so loud he couldn’t hear his own screaming as he yelled. “Bring it on!” he roared. The sound of wind and rain and waves was deafening. All around him God waged war with the sea, and he was caught in the middle of it, trying to steer his little boat to the clearing.
Thunder cracked and bolt of lightning struck in the distance, a shock of blue that left a strip of purple over John’s vision. A wave crashed over the head of the boat, John gripped the helm hard and it was all he could do to keep himself upright. A foot of water sloshed over the deck, threatening to rip everything away and over the side. “Is that all you got?! I’m made of stronger shit than that!”
As if in answer, two waves simultaneously hit the boat, from different angles, and John went down hard, sliding across the deck and into the railing, a sharp pain shooting up his shoulder. He fumbled on his knees and got back up, he had to lean into the wind to grab the helm which was spinning wildly, all the while the boat still going straight up and straight down and back again.
This isn’t how I leave this world.
He grabbed two points of his universe and leaned forward, letting out a hysterical laugh as he steered the Savior straight into the depths of hell. As each new wave hit the deck, he’d let out a battle cry, holding on as tight as he could. He throttled the small twin engines he’d installed and revved them hard, catching air off the next wave and crashing into the one after that. I’m actually having fun, he realized. Death is at my door, and I’m playing ding-dong-ditch!
Soon, the waves seemed to die down. The rain let up to a light mist and suddenly he could hear himself think again. But the adrenaline was still there, pumping through his body. So, he cracked a cold beer and guzzled it, foam churning over his lips and running down his neck until the bottle was gone. He had several more as he steered the Savior through the clearing and beyond into the distance, into the dawn of morning light.
I made it. I lived to tell the tale.
Not once during the storm or for the twenty four hours after, did John realize that his navigation system had shorted and that he was no longer headed for La Gomera, but somewhere else entirely. That destiny had intervened and was about to send him spiraling.
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