7.07.2008

The Storm

The wind picked up and the waves began white-capping, turning turbulent where once there was calm. The sky stripped his robe of blue and put on a a gray mantle so that the clouds turned dark and mischievous. The rain began to drop in sheets, pounding the little ship with force beyond reckoning. Flannery called all hands to the deck, yelling through a fierce snarl. The crew lashed everything down and prepared for a long day. With a grim smile creasing his face, he braced himself as water came over the tall bow. Things were getting ugly.

The onslaught continued for 3 hours while Ho'okele pushed through the storm, taking on water and creaking in the wind. Three good men were lost over the side and one, Crow's Nest Johnny, lost a hand when the rigging went super tight. He fell 12 feet and managed to land on all 3s, keeping his newly formed stump, still bleeding, over his head. The rest of the crew worked hard in slickers, all drenched from head to foot with rain and salt-water.

As they made their way out of the storm, cheering went up from the men, happy that they made it though the worst of it. McTavish mopped his face with a semi-dry towel and looked into the sunlight, happy.

7.03.2008

Ho'okele

This might be an extended series. I want to write in something specific, but I need to lay some framework, I think. At any rate, the title and name of the ship means "Navigator."

They toiled against the ropes, lashing the sail and making fast for a quick run along the islands. Ho'okele, as the ship was called, could maneuver well enough to hold her own, had 12 cannons and a captain that took little from anyone, but demanded all his men had. He stood at the wheel of the ship, looking over his most prized possession -- and the substance of his dreams. Pipe in hand, he nodded to the wheelman and stepped onto the deck.

Captain Jay McTavish was not the ordinary seaman. He was squinty in one eye, this is true, but that is where the similarities between himself and the stereotypes ended. With hair in his face and pockmarked hands, he looked more the impoverished boy of old London than a sailor of fortune. The sun caught him in the face and he pulled his right forearm up as a shield, yelling out for more speed and less jabberjaw from his crew.

His first-mate, Kevin Flannery, was 20 years the captain's elder. He deferred with the knowledge that McTavish was a better captain, let alone a better man. With gray eyes and chin stubble, Flannery stood out among the young men he was mate over. He chewed heaps of tobacco and was prone to spitting over the side, causing streams of black to run along the outer hull of the ship -- eventually forcing crewmen to hang over the end suspended, old toothbrushes in hand to keep the old girl clean.

They moved along at a good clip, slicing through the water and heading West. Flannery had joked earlier that they would all fall off the edge of the map and into the Great Abyss. "As long as I go down at sea," McTavish replied, "I'd be happy indeed." But now, hours past the islands with no sign of slowing, Flannery began to question the realism of his jest. No one had been this far out -- and he didn't want to be the first one to make the trip.

"Captain," he said, standing at McTavish's side.

"Aye."

"Can I speak plainly, sir?"

"Sure. Speak your mind, Kevin. Speak your mind."

"Well sir. Here's the thing. No one's been out this far West before."

"And..."

Flannery looked down at this point, rubbing the stubble along his jawline. "And I don't know what's going to happen, Sir. I mean, where are we going?"

"No one knows what's going to happen, Kevin. And frankly, that's why we're going. We could go to Singapore, if you'd like, or Alaska, but where's the fun in that? We head West till we make land, or die trying."

"..."

"You're a might scared, aren't ya?"

"Aye, Captain. A might."

"Well, don't go telling the crew then. Don't want morale to drop because my first-mate got a case of the frights. You understand me?"

"Aye aye, Cap'n."

"Flannery?"

"Yes?"

"Think of the adventure." McTavish's eyes sparked with the light of youth, standing at the bow of the ship, ready for whatever the sea had to throw at him.

And then the weather changed.

Downpour

This could be a continuation of a story I read on "The Fabian Society" called "Anhedonia."

And then came first rain. The pitter-patter against the elms kept her ears strained in the otherwise quiet of the night. The scent of it rose from the sidewalks, forcing her to throw back the covers and shut the window lest she begin to unravel in happiness. She had been stoic for so long, she could not imagine what this feeling was building within her.

At breakfast, it was still raining. Her cool doll's voice cracked in conversation over the table and the typical "O yes" she would resound was inadequate and somehow lacking. She scraped her plate into the trashcan at the thought and calmly, blankly, walked outside.

She smiled at the downpour as it caressed her head and wet her shoulders, her feet, her nose. The heavens welcomed her back into humanity while she walked on, drenched but unashamed.

7.02.2008

Dawn Patrol

They sat on the water in full wetsuits, only six feet apart, quiet in the calm of near-morning. The sky was the deep concrete gray before dawn and the lights from the oil rig could still be seen from shore. Alain had gotten up at 4:30 this morning, tossed his board in the pickup and drove the hour down to San Onofre. Jeter was already there to meet him, double-fisting cocoa and leaning against his beat-up corolla. His wetsuit was already half-way on and he wore a tattered sweatshirt over his chest. The cocoa was handed off and both men set to work dressing, pulling out boards, getting leashes ready, applying the last bits of wax.

They stood down near the high tide mark and Alain glanced over his shoulder, his hair whipping toward the sea. The windsock was pointing in a southerly direction.

"Decent off-shore wind today," he said.

"I know, right? The faces should hold up pretty well."

They continued to stand on the brink of eternity, watching the waves, gleaning their pattern and deciphering their code. When the set finished, they put arms in their suits, zipped the backs and plunged in, sliding the boards along the surface of the water. Jeter jumped on top of his board first and started paddling hard with both arms.

"Freaking cold."

"Haha."

Both boys now sat on their boards with hair matted against their scalps, waiting for the next set. It was these times, as much as the actual surfing, that brought them together. Alain put his hands in his armpits and pulled his elbows close to him. Jeter brought his legs up on the board knees nearly to his chest and huddled in anticipation. Both could see their breath.

They didn't need to wait long. As the sky turned purple, the new set arrived. "Incoming," Jeter muttered. He slid to the tail of his board, egg-beatering in the water spinning the behemoth 180 degrees. Alain followed suit in a similar action. They went flat out, beginning the slow paddle that picked up momentum as the wave approached. Adrenaline coursed through them as they were pulled up and away from land. With 2 more heavy strokes, Alain was the first to pop up and stand. "One," he called out.

Jeter cut next to him, smiling hard. It's going to be a great morning, he thought.