THE SEA CAPTAIN
By
Bill Olson
© 1987, 2001 by Bill Olson
The captain came on deck wiping grease from his hands with a dirty rag. He wondered if the engine could, indeed, be repaired. He looked off to sea as if to ask someone out there.
The sun had gone down but the stars were not yet out, so they could not tell his fate or fortune. In fact, there was a great silence cast over the sea. One, after all, could not expect answers from silence, just as one could not expect light from darkness.
The captain strained to hear a murmur of water against the hull, but the clanking of engine repair below overwhelmed the effort: a pocket of mischief that seemed too great even for God’s silent sea to swallow, though he knew no human could match God's power of silence.
He spotted a water slick on the wooden deck and imagined that a mermaid, with hopes of wine and a kiss, had climbed aboard.
He wiped the rag across his cheek. Strands of thread clung to whisker stubble. Then he rubbed the palm of his hand against his face. A shave, a bath, and a change of clothes would be nice. But he resisted the hope: No mermaids would stop by tonight. And there were no other maidens to tempt. He remembered blonde locks and cherry lips touching his face. That was long ago, but not so vague a memory as he would've liked. He tried to forget such happy moments lost amidst a distant shore.
He realized he was shaking his head and feeling scared. Then he noticed the clanking had stopped. He turned around to make sure he remained alone and safe in his own little world. Satisfied, he stepped closer to the bulwarks and looked over the edge.
As night approached, the waters lost her colors, and her daytime chill would soon be nighttime warmth. And against the hull he heard a murmur, like a voice close beside him.
"You see it!"
The startled captain followed Davoll's gaze to where the sun had set, but saw nothing peculiar. The younger man looked at him, then pointed: "Over there."
Yes. There it was: a cindered mote.
"A life raft," Davoll said. "I used your telescope.”
"Anyone alive?"
"Couldn't tell.”
The captain saw something like hunger on Davoll's face; anybody in a life raft around here was likely from the same plane crash as he. But without the engine, possibilities of reaching the lifeboat were fleeting.
"Well," Davoll said, nervously, "I'll have to swim out there before it gets too dark."
The captain shuddered, thinking it was already too dark. But he was the captain of his boat, not of Davoll, so he said nothing.
As Davoll stripped for the journey, the old mariner disappeared into the cabin and emerged with a flashlight and life jacket. He handed the life jacket to the younger man and tested the flashlight. It worked.
Davoll jumped into the water and began swimming toward the distant speck.
Darkness approached quickly, and the captain feared his unwitting passenger would be trapped at open sea. He tried to avoid his fear, making himself believe it would be Davoll's own fault, but his muscles tightly gripped his bones, as if afraid it would fall from its frame if Davoll drowned.
The captain looked through the telescope but could see only a silhouette. There was a body in the life raft, but it never moved. Perhaps it was not just dead, but rotted. Perhaps Davoll would drown or bait a school of sharks, all for the sake of a skeleton. Then when darkness withered, the captain would appraise the seascape of a new day, free of motes, meat or fabric – all swallowed by Neptune’s waves. Repair of the engine would then be at hand, perhaps his last labor, for he was not adept at such things.
Davoll had admitted he didn't know much about engines, but he couldn't believe the abuse the captain had allowed.
"We'd better strip the damn thing," he’d said when it refused to start.
A chill overtook the old man. "You said you're no mechanic yourself.”
"Who has to be perfect?"
The old man shivered. He had never liked blind stabs. He was not a risk taker – not with engine repairs or life. He was ill prepared for his nautical venture. He never talked about his decision to invest his small fortune in an old yacht, to leave the security of land; it was too difficult to explain. But the dangers of the sea frightened him less than a life of social uncertainties – one gale, after all, could kill. Surely this was worse than sweaty palms on prom night. But the captain had never been to a prom. He remembered the day after one, though. A girl whose name he'd forgotten told him she had looked for him there. Was she teasing him or had he missed an opportunity?
On the dark, silent deck, as he waved his flashlight to guide Davoll, he felt no sweaty palms, no chill, not even remorse at a missed opportunity. He smiled, happy for the memory and the hope that perhaps that girl had liked him.
He leaned over the bulwarks, looked into an ocean now black as pitch. The smile left him. Any fish would swim through this pitch confidently, as a dancer would grace a stage. Darkness could mean nothing to the fish; the safety of the fish was not in question.
He backed away from the sea and looked at the cabin door, wondered if he could spare a moment from his post as lighthouse. He decided he could and went inside to prepare hot coffee. He was filling the pot with water when he realized that, without the engine to charge the battery, the heater wouldn’t work. He put the water jug down, put on his wool jacket, and returned on deck.
* * *
In the blackness of night, the captain tugged, and soon the wet form lay limp in his arms. Davoll Climbed aboard and grabbed the flashlight to lead the way.
When they reached the bed the old man leaned over, setting the body onto the mattress. There was no discernible stench, but he still expected a corpse. When he pulled his face from the castaway's shoulder, the flashlight beam fell upon shiny white cheeks. The face was blurry because he was too close, but the cheeks formed part of a young woman's features. He drew back slowly and saw that she was so beautiful, so unlikely to return his love, that he could only regret being alive at that moment. He remembered bountiful shores, of men standing on moonlit piers with women in their arms. And despite the chill, a bead of sweat would emerge to his forehead. He would wipe it away but the envy remained.
He had no room for discordant emotions, the cacophony of doors that closed to him. Harmony would come only from nature. In nature he could shun the closed doors. With nature he would never be alone.
He felt his wet sleeves. She had come into his arms and gone again before he knew she was a woman. And now she lay comatose, cold and silent as God. He touched her wrist, felt a pulse.
"Do you recognize her?" the mariner asked. "Is she from your plane?"
"There were about twenty of us.” Davoll looked to where he believed the island was where the captain picked him up.
"I wonder if there are other survivors out there," Davoll said. "Is it better to die, or to live the balance of one's life on an unknown, lonely island?"
The captain did not reply. He thought Davoll’s island was just right. After returning Davoll to civilization, the older man planned to return and exile himself there. Then he realized why he had taken on his uncertain venture. "One chooses between fears,” he said, looking at the woman. Then he looked at Davoll. "I could've been a pirate for all you knew. Yet you decided the risk was worth getting rescued."
"A pirate!” Davoll shook his head, puzzled. “The thought never even occurred to me.” He looked at the woman. "Those wet clothes should come off.”
The captain looked at his own damp sleeves then realized Davoll meant the woman. He hesitated. They both hesitated, looking at each other, waiting for the other to take on the chore. Davoll, perhaps, waited out of respect, the captain out of fear. Finally, the old man bent down and removed her clothes with Davoll giving helpful tugs at sleeves. Revealed was a well-kept body, cold and blue from exposure. The captain took a towel and dried her with deliberate care, then covered her with a dry blanket and hung her clothes from cables out on deck.
She probably needed medical attention. The engine failure due to the captain's negligence perhaps put her life at stake. The captain wished his isolation would return so he could escape the responsibility now facing him.
"Should we try to wake her?" the young man asked. Without waiting for a response, Davoll leaned over and patted the woman's cheeks. "Ma'am. Miss, wake up.” He paused, frustrated. "I wonder what her name is. Did she have identification?"
"I didn't check."
Davoll took the flashlight outside. The captain followed, remembering that he needed a shave, a change of clothes and a bath. He shook his head. Why fool himself? She would never love him. And if she did, he would leave the sea but keep his boat; relationships are transitory but the sea would always wait for him.
Davoll set the woman's jeans on a toolbox. In his hand was a thin blue and gold book: a passport. He opened it, but before he could read her name, a moan filled the air. The two men looked at each other, then ran inside.
"Ma'am," the captain said, "you're all right."
She mumbled in response.
"What did she say?" Davoll asked.
"I don't know."
"She needs something hot to drink -- "
"Without the engine to charge the batteries . . . " the captain had planned on getting the upper hand, but Davoll said,
"That's what I was going to say. It's just too damn bad.” Sarcasm seized his voice.
The captain felt a need to redeem himself and prove his concern for the woman. He bent down and asked, "What's your name?"
She moved her head a little, but said nothing.
"I'll get you some fresh water to drink," Davoll said. The woman smiled. It was like the unconscious smile of someone having a good dream.
"You have the passport?" the captain asked.
"I left it outside."
While the younger man fumbled in the dark corner trying to prepare water, the captain returned on deck with the flashlight to search for the passport. He aimed the beam at the pants on the tool chest. . . .
A splash! The captain turned around. A weak thrashing came from the water. He ran to the railing and saw the woman floating in the silent pitch of ocean. She raised an arm. Her eyes were opened fully. She tried to call out but could only cough. The captain began stepping over the railing but felt suddenly dizzy. He froze, felt sick in his stomach, then backed away.
"Where is she?" Davoll asked, coming out on deck. The captain looked again, aiming the flashlight desperately about. But there was nothing: no sight, no sound. His lips quivered. Davoll rushed to the railing, pulled his shirt and pants off and dove in while the old man aimed the flashlight beam uselessly upon the surface of the black waters. Beneath, somewhere in the depths, he knew there were fish that, even in the darkness, swam confidently in their natural environment. And despite the chill, a bead of sweat emerged on his forehead.
-- Eau Claire, Wisconsin
March 28, 1987
Revised February 1, 2001