adrift
Yesterday, tattered and naked, he had cursed the sun with a swollen tongue and cracked bleeding lips. Today, he could not speak, but rather lay helpless in the bilge of the skiff, his body as becalmed as the ocean that surrounded him, the sun sucking the last bit of life out of every cell. He had not eaten in a fortnight, but worse, the last of the sweet water was six days ago.
“Water, water everywhere, but nary a drop to drink.”
He’d heard tales of becalmed sailors losing their minds and gulping down sea water, precipitating a painful death.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes lucid, most of the time delirious, alternating between trying to remember who he was and how he got here and passively surrendering to the heat of the fiery orb in the cloudless sky above him that would not kill him quickly, but instead, demon-like, was determined to ever so slowly suck what little moisture remained from the emaciated shell of what had been a man.
Was it a dream? Would night never come again with its merciful coolness? Or, was night aligned, Apollo's coconspirator, whose mission it was to prolong the agony, to kill more slowly by bringing seasons of false hope?
Images. Dreams? Swirling colors. Nausea.
Heat, always heat.
“A woman. Well dressed. Cold. Married considerably above the wretched station of the working class, yet lower than royalty. Not a lady, but she wanted to be one, pretended to be one -- stabbing orders at overworked servants who privately despised her, and never made eye contact as they curtsied or bowed and called her ‘mum’.
“A Victorian home. Fine furniture, aged wines. Who was this woman whose image he kept seeing, whose face sucked away his soul even as the sun drew his strength into itself?
“Another woman, the antithesis of the first. Round and soft, with ample bosom, holding a young boy, whispering love and comfort, warm and safe.”
How is it that this person of no relation could be more maternal than his own natural mother? Which one was the mother -- the one who carried and birthed him, or the one who loved and nurtured him?
The little boy was often alone. It seemed to him that he was perpetually in the way of the cold woman. The warm round one always had kind words but worked incessantly -- washing, laundry, dusting, scrubbing -- singing all the while.
Sleep. Loss of consciousness. How long?
Heat. Torture from the heavens. Fading.
“Who’s picture is that above the mantle? Austere, proper, ship-captain’s uniform. Is that me? I am a ship captain. How did I get in this skiff? Mutiny? Choice? Shipwreck? Where is my crew?
“No, the painting is not of me, but looks like me. Who is that? Father. Absent noble. Legend. Appointed by the Queen.”
Adrift on a lake of fire. Alone, utterly alone.
“Another woman. Young, pretty. Personality like the round, soft, kind one. Smiling. A daughter in crinoline at her side. Who? Wife! Dearling. Annabel, our baby. Where are you?
“Hymns, homily, Eucharist. This is my Body. The Blood of Christ. Amen.
“Christ. God. Where are you? Why have you abandoned me to this torture? Am I being punished? A dying man cannot choose anything. Prayer evaporates in the heat. The sun has burned away divine communion.”
A soft rain soaked into his skin. Instinctively, his mouth opened and rivulets of fresh water resurrected his tongue and throat. Cat’s paws on the sea; now some small white caps. Redemptive breeze.
“Master Captain, you are baptized in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Every cell sucked in the moisture. Hunger returned.
They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters; These see the works of the LORD, and his wonders in the deep. For he commandeth, and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof.
Then came the second miracle. An Ahi, some three feet long, flipped itself into the boat. Tuna don’t do that. There were no manners now as he ripped into the flesh and devoured the sushi in the rain.
“Sweet rain. May it never stop. The rain falls on the just and the unjust. Showers of blessing.”
Memory revived. His absent father; his cold distant mother; his warm caring nanny; his wife Jenny and their daughter Annabel. England. Fog. Born to the sea. Appoint in her majesty’s navy as a junior officer. Ship after ship. Then a vessel of his own. Captain.
Mutiny. It had been a mutiny.
“Why? Was I too hard on the crew? We’d seen some action. Chased down a Spanish frigate and commandeered her for Her Majesty. Filled with gold and guns.”
Last bite of fish. More rain and breeze. Blessed rain; blessed wind.
“Is God who was absent in the heat and sun alive in the wind and rain?”
“Ah, the whipping! No wonder they mutinied. Bloody cat-in-nine-tails. Drum roll. Make them all watch. What the hell was I thinking? Knocked unconscious. Woke up in this skiff. No oars. No sail. Just water. Then the wind went away and the torture began. Had every drop of the sailor’s blood been answered by a drop of moisture from my body? Does God exact justice? An eye for an eye.
“Does God cause mutinies? Does God torture people? Jesus said forgiveness; no more tooth for a tooth.
“What kind of God have I been taught to believe in? Absent but revered like my father? Cold and concerned with appearances like my mother? Just? A wielder of a bloody cat-in-nine-tails? Grapes of wrath?
“God is love. ‘For God so loved the world.’ ‘I came not to condemn the world but to save it.’ The sun burnt the memory of what the lashed sailor had done out of my mind. Forgiveness. I forgive. Mercy. Grace. Maybe “judgement” is simply the natural consequences of our choices.”
He fashioned a hook from the remnants of a button and braided threads from what had been his pants to fish with. He would survive for a while unless the wind stopped again, or sharks destroyed his boat, or a rogue wave swallowed him, or a storm sent him to a watery grave, or pirates found him.
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