The Storm

The Storm











The hand carved Puerto Rican wind chimes suddenly danced to life somewhere in the night. Their dissident chord jangled loud enough to jerk me awake just seconds before the boat pitched violently to port and threw me face first onto the deck. I scrambled to my feet wiping salt away from my eyes with the back of my wrist. The world slowly came into focus and I was able to make out what looked to be fishing gear and what was definitely my favorite shirt riding a wave that was bringing them back onboard very quickly. I shut my eyes together tightly, fell back towards the hammock and flailed my limbs frantically hoping that I would become tangled in the nylon ropes and stay on the boat.

The full force of the ocean swept over me and carried something that hurt so sharply it must have been the fishing tackle cutting my face apart. Pain rudely awakened my central nervous system and all at once cold sank deep into my bones and the gravity of the situation rushed to the forefront of my mind. “Holy shit, I’m going to die.” The wind laughed maniacally at my predicament and my mouth and nose became flooded with the taste of seawater and chum that had been swept off, then back onboard. The swell of ocean left the deck giving me a second to find my bearings. The power had gone out, there was one hell of a storm pummeling my poor little ship and God only knows how much gear I had lost over board thus far. Miraculously however I was now holding my favorite shirt but wasn’t sure how.

Above the roar of the storm I inexplicably began to hear…sea lions? No, not Sea lions, “FUCK its Sam!” By all rights Sam the salty sea dog, which was his full name, should be dead by now. After all, by my best estimate he was about 137 years old, dog years of course. He was bellowing from below deck but it wasn’t an especially worrisome bark it was more of a “Put the beer down and drive the boat right you fucking drunk!” sort of howl. I threw loose whatever it was that I had been using for an anchor and made for the cabin’s hatch. I only managed to stagger a few steps before the stern, where I had been sleeping, was thrust into the air forcing me onto my aft end. Then, just as quickly, it fell away from me.

Hanging there in the blackness, with entirely too much time to think for someone who should be falling, I contemplated which landing would be better. A splash down in the frigid ocean water that would probably leave me stranded without my boat and dog or to plummet back onto the hard deck of the Misfortune hoping to miss all the sharp, now loose, things and not break anything vital. I didn’t get the chance to decide though; a third option suddenly presented itself in the form of the mast. It smashed into my chest hurling my frozen, water logged body into the tattered remnants of the sail. I clawed desperately for anything to hold onto and managed to slow my fall enough to land back on the deck with only a twisted ankle (hopefully) and maybe a broken rib or four. I decided that Sam was better off below on his own. After all if I opened the hatch it would just let more water in and Sam hates being wet.

I groped wildly for anything to latch myself to the mast with but was coming up empty handed. I thought to use my shirt but it wasn’t big enough. I was trying to tear it in two when once more the Atlantic Ocean came aboard and the boat began listing to starboard. This brought a flood of junk toward me among which was a nice sized piece of line. For a split second not securing my crap properly was paying off until something heavy and moving very fast found my nose and splattered it across my face. Blue and white electric sparkles darted in front of me drawing attention from my ribs to a new pain. I shook my head, looped the line around the mast a few times and then around myself but couldn’t see well enough to tie a good knot. I was feverishly fumbling the bitter-ends together and hoping that maybe my hands would remember something on their own when dad burst into my head. As a boy I had always wanted to be a sailor just like my old man. He told me to start learning to work with rope and taught me a little rhyme that now, it seemed, might just save my life. “Right over left, left over right, makes that square knot tight, tight, tight.” Hopefully that would hold. I looked over the port side, clutched the mast with as much strength as I could muster and got set for whatever was to come.

The next major wave hit the Misfortune; it capsized my little ship and snapped the mast 2 feet above me. Then, I guess just to play a while longer; the water finished rolling me and set the boat upright again. I began cursing furiously at the wind, weaving a tapestry of insults that my father would have been proud of but I don’t think it could hear me over its own bravado. Finally, about 45 minutes after those beautiful wind chimes woke me up the wind all but died and the waves were back to almost normal proportions. I untied my square knot and crawled toward the hatch. Sam was still below somewhere but wasn’t barking anymore. In the wheelhouse I felt around for something to light my way but only managed to find a flare and a few unidentifiable scraps of debris, regardless I headed below deck.

The lights were still out so finding my way around was interesting to say the least. Slowly and methodically I worked my way forward feeling along the bulkhead and saying “there should be a fire extinguisher here.” and “is that booze or fuel I smell?” The water in the cabin was much shallower than I had anticipated which boded well for my chances of salvaging the situation. I did however manage to kick something solid and further injure my twisted ankle. After a few minutes of wading and wishing for a light I found the bed and Sam. He was curled into a ball, soaking wet and cold. I ran my hand across his fur, picked the old dog up in my arms and carried him back onto the deck.

By now the clouds had mostly dissipated and the full brilliance of the stars hanging inches above the black ocean could be seen. I instinctively sought out the dipper then the North Star. Knowing where north was made me feel slightly less lost and gave me a sense of home reserved only for sailors. With a new calm in my heart I eased myself onto the deck, paying special attention to my sore ribs and ankle, and laid flat on my back watching the sky. Then, for what I assume to be the joy of still being alive, I laughed, uncontrollably. I laughed until my ribs hurt too much to continue and when I couldn’t laugh anymore I cried, pet my dog and watched the stars disappear one by one until the sun peeked over the horizon just off the starboard bow.

With dawn came my first glimpse of the broken, and aptly named, Misfortune. She was a mess. Debris littered her deck, the mast had snapped and the sails were hung up on the port railing and trailed along side as we drifted on the current. The damage to my electronics was extensive, sea water had flooded everything leaving me with no power and no way to steer the ship. It was a grand cluster fuck of a situation that left me with no idea what to do.

Sam stretched himself in the morning sun and gave his tired old frame a good shake to dry off. “Well buddy I hope I don’t have to eat you.” I said with a little chuckle but in the back of my mind was genuinely worried about my resources. If we were going to make it through this we would need fresh water and something to eat. I started rummaging around the deck to see if anything useful had stayed onboard and the few odds and ends I did find I latched to the most solid pieces of ship I could find. I have never paid so much attention to securing my gear but my gear has never been so glaringly important to me before. With the few things I had on deck fastened down I went back below to rifle through the mess and see what I could find.

My supplies had been tossed around and a few things were damaged slightly but my fresh water was in tact. I had forty-eight 24oz. bottles of zephyr hills spring water that I hoped would last me a while. My food however had been on deck with the exception of 2 cans of tomato soup, a half empty bag of chips and a water logged loaf of bread. That meant I would need to find a way to get food and that meant fishing. But my tackle was sitting on the sea floor by now. “I am screwed.” The words sounded almost comical echoing through the cabin which was a surprise considering how dismal and finite they had sounded in my head. “Okay, I’ve got water. Let’s get the ship dry and make sure she’ll stay afloat then we can worry about food.” It occurred to me at just that moment that I had only been adrift for 4 or 5 hours and was already talking to myself. I shook my head and made my way topside to start trying to fix the damage.

First and foremost I wanted to get that sail back on the boat. That much cloth has to good for something. The damn thing weighed a ton and despite my aching ribs I slowly worked one hand over the other until it was nearly all onboard. The last few feet seemed to be hung up so I gritted my teeth, summoned up all the energy I could muster and gave one last adrenaline fueled tug. I fell backwards off balance and crashed into the wadded pile of sail behind me. A small fish that must have been tucked in the folds flopped into the air and landed on my face with a thud. It flailed feverishly against my skin so I grabbed hold and yanked it away. There was an immediate pain in my cheek and a trailing splash of blood followed the fish through the air. It was painful but also fruitful. I had made a discovery; there in the fish’s underbelly was a shiny new hook.

I reached to touch the pain in my face and pricked my fingertip. “Holy shit.” I said in a panic and ran below to a mirror. My face was ugly with scratches, blood and a broken nose but most concerning were the seven assorted size fish hooks embedded there. I had two in my forehead, one in my chin, three in my right cheek and neck and one in my broken nose. I gingerly touched one of the smaller hooks in my cheek, it wasn’t a pleasant sensation but it wasn’t horrible either. I knew the hooks needed to come out if for no other reason than I needed the fishing gear to get some food but I really didn’t want to take them out.

I started with a small hook that was just barely in the skin; I figured it would be the easiest to take out and a good warm up for the rest. I was right, it didn’t do more than sting as I backed it out of my chin but it wasn’t even deep enough for the barb to really get a hold. The next hook was small but the barb had come all the way through my eyebrow so I had to push it through the rest of the way, which was not as easy. The eye was wider than the hole in my face and since I didn’t have any snips I just had to push through the pain. Most of the rest of the hooks came out the same way, I would push for as long as I could stand the pain and then take a breather for a few minutes and try not to vomit. The last hook wasn't going anywhere. It looped through the left nostril of my broken nose and looked like something my ex-girlfriend would've worn. Just touching it sent shocks of pain to the back of my skull, there was no way I was going to be able to take this out.