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Becalmed

A baked ship on a listless sea lies limply on the waves.  White light tramples on the splintery boards as the vessel rocks in the glare of the sun.  Deck is bare and sail is empty; the lonely helm creaks as the weak current catches the rudder.

I stumble up on deck, a bottle sloshing in my hand.  My eyes are unable to focus; puking over the side helps the hangover.  And I look over to the wheel from the railing, remembering the storm that drove me below decks.

The storm came quickly; I had not been scanning the skies for the hints. Suddenly the rain had begun; a gust pummeled the sail as the tide kicked at the rudder beneath.  I clung to the wheel, already straining to breathe, to stand, to steer.  I lashed the wheel as another of the storm's tantrums pounded down upon the deck with heavy waves grasping at my shoes.  I battled over to the mast and fought to furl the hysterical sail. The salt and the raindrops stabbed into my bare hands, as the storm's shrieking began to grow.

Louder it shrieked as I struggled to stand on slick boards, and I fell onto my knees and my left wrist as I abandoned the possessed kite to get to the wheel.  I felt the warm blood on my palm briefly repel the ice of the deluge, until the salt dug into my broken skin and began to scream.  Numb hands clamped onto wooden spokes, and I fought to stay my course, battled to find the way as my own ship bucked against me.  Over and over again the spokes wrenched free and battered my knuckles, until I could no longer use my hands.  The storm mounted and roiled and ripped the energy from my limp body.  Salt water poured under my eyelids and into my ears, and scrubbed my throat raw.  I knew I had to stay my course, but I could only see the storm.

I leapt from the helm before it struck me; it began to spin wildly in the chaos, the ship her own master now.  I ducked under the boom as the wind cackled along the sheet of the sail, and fled below decks.  I uncorked a bottle of whiskey as the ship bucked and weaved as she wished.  I then looked to the opposite bunk where my father had remained asleep.  I had not thought to wake him.  And the wind whistled as I drunk myself into distraction and sleep.

I lay on the railing under the angry sun, an aimless failure on a becalmed sea.  Sweat beaded on my forehead and rolled down the channel of my spine.  I had failed.  Another rush of sea water and whiskey races up from my stomach and back into the waves.

And then I hear the footsteps on the planks.  And want to follow my vomit.

I slither to the boards and hide behind my knees, my hand still on the railing.  His eyes are clear as they rise from below the deck.  The bottle rolls as the ship tilts, and I pitch my head over the side again to expel another mouthful of bile.  I feel it dribble down my chin.  I cinch my eyes shut against the waves, my knuckles tight and white.  The boots stop behind me.  I brace for blows and bellowing.  I've lost our bearings; I should've stayed the course; I should've woken him up to help.

I suddenly feel his hands beneath my armpits and he grunts to lift me to my feet.  He steadies me by the shoulders as I stare at his shirt buttons.  A sigh; he cups a hand behind my head and pulls me to his chest, his left arm clamped around my back.  I press my face into his shirt and wrap my arms around his middle until my breathing slows to meet his.

He pushes me back again to look into my face, combing back the salty tangles from my face.  His thumb finds the sticky of the vomit on my chin.  He reaches into his front pocket for his handkerchief and wipes the spit away, and murmurs, "I'd glad you're ok."

Comments

Dorian said…
Like! This totally appeals to the grimy, old, whiskey-drinking, Tom Waits-listening, Bukowski-reading bastard in me. You should write this into a story...

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