Alone
Imagined
Interrupted
Overheard
Prospects of
Ship-board communication systems (failure of)
Snakes/serpents
Space shuttles
Squid
Teenagers
Gifted
Horny
Lost at sea
Sullen/morose
Trouble in kitchens
Uncomfortable encounters at the grocery store
Unemployment
Unidentifiable animals
Vegetarianism
Visions of the future
I’m Fine,
But You
Appear
to Be
Sinking
From the notebook of Captain C.J. Wyle, February 1
It’s just me, Gideon, and Plymouth now.
Strangely, the Artemis seems smaller with only the three of us onboard. At ten people, our 112-foot trimaran felt spacious, with plenty of room for everyone to go about their respective tasks. There was a constant human hum, but we weren’t on top of each other.
Now Gideon and I can’t seem to escape ourselves and Plymouth is always under foot. His barking echoes through the narrow hatchways. Shrunken—that’s how this whole arrangement feels.
The Pacific Ocean, however, is the same size it’s always been.
I don’t want to admit anxiety or desperation. That seems unprofessional. But if the boat has moved in recent days, it has been by its own accord and certainly not in any productive direction. We lack the necessary manpower and know-how. I try not to blame Gideon for this. He is, after all, only an intern.
So far, I’ve managed to avoid making hasty decisions. Inaction, for the time being, seems the safest course of action. The trip has been so marred already by the pitfall of optimism.
When the others started making their preparations, the clouds were high. By the time they had descended and darkened, the inflatable skiff, Righteous Fury, had already been lowered off the stern of the Artemis and into the sea. The protest banners were unfurled and the megaphone batteries charged. It occurs to me now that reasonable men with reasonable aims would have called for a rain check. That’s the problem with radicals—they rarely take weather into account.
Gideon had been left behind to keep watch. Together, we observed from the bow as the skiff containing our eight crewmates set off after a whaling ship of unknown nationality. Gideon held a digital video camera. His face was a wide grin.
“Civil disobedience is the highest form of civic participation,” he informed me.
I asked whether the maxim still applied in ungovernable waters where there is no civil or civic anything to speak of. Gideon shook his head and told me that right and wrong transcend international boundaries.
The whaling ship had been spotted near the horizon that morning by Gideon himself. It was the first encounter of the trip and the crew’s excitement was palpable. I watched as they readied themselves, speaking hurriedly, faces flushed. They knew how to say, “You are in violation of the Endangered Species Act and International Whaling Convention” in thirteen languages. A few had worked out phrases of their own such as, “How would you like to be harpooned?” and, “Every humpback is someone’s child.” Though technically it would be more accurate to say, “Every humpback is someone’s calf,” but I suppose that doesn’t have quite the same ring.
If the banner waving and slogan shouting did not convince the whalers to turn back, I’d been told by certain crew members that they were prepared to board the rogue vessel. No one would say what might happen once they were inside.
Did this necessity ever come to pass? We’ll never know. The skiff was not yet in shouting distance of the whalers when the sky, already gray and noisy, closed in on us, obstructing our view of the only other souls Gideon or I knew in the entire hemisphere. For the next five hours, we were no more than a buoy, bobbing alone in the sputtering froth of warm rain and salty wind.
When the clouds lifted, the whaling vessel was gone from the horizon and so was the skiff Righteous Fury.
It should be noted that the day of the storm, it was Nelson’s turn in the galley. Gideon and I were unable to reach an amicable agreement as to who should pick up the slack and make dinner. And so we simply went without eating.
Now, I have designated Gideon as the all-time breadwinner, and baker (if I may be so bold as to extend the analogy). There are plenty of canned goods in the galley, but the supply is certainly not infinite. I suggested we ought to supplement these items with fresh fish. This part of the ocean is rich with life, after all. Gideon was not initially pleased with the idea, claiming he is an ultra-strict vegan and refuses to eat anything that casts a shadow. I told him this was no excuse for shirking his responsibility to the remaining crewmembers, myself and Plymouth specifically, but he insisted. So I’ve had to find other ways of motivating him.
“Gideon,” I say when I get hungry, “catch me some fish, or I’m going to kill your dog and eat it.” He practically jumps for his pole every time.
The same threat works for getting other tasks done as well.
“Gideon, straighten the lines, or I’ll kill your dog and eat it.” “Gideon, empty the bilge, or I’ll kill your dog and eat it.” “Gideon, bring me the binoculars...” You get the idea.
Unfortunately, this ploy may have a limited lifespan. Gideon has already succeeded in hiding almost all the knives onboard and has begun removing cleats and other metal affixtures from the deck for good measure.
From the notebook of Captain C.J. Wyle, February 4
There’s been no wind for days, as if the ocean wore itself out swallowing our comrades. I lick my lips and feel nothing against them. It’s almost a relief. I know my limitations.
I wish I could say the same for my shipmates.
Gideon paces the deck in the heat of the afternoon, Plymouth always nearby. He fiddles with ropes and cranks and looks expectantly toward the sky and then down into the water. He wants to know what we are going to do.
I keep telling him there are Quaaludes in my toiletries kit and grain alcohol in the galley and we can worry about further logistics once those are gone. He finds this answer unsatisfying.
From the notebook of Captain C.J. Wyle, February 5
At noon, Gideon called to me, saying I should come up top with him to look at the octopus. But I stayed put. I’ve seen the octopus before and what’s more, as I’ve already told Gideon, it’s not an octopus. It’s a giant squid. Octopuses don’t get that large.
Gideon believes it’s an omen, a harbinger of good luck. We first saw it the day after the storm—a shimmering, near-translucent mass passing beneath us. It was gone in an instant, but the goose bumps on my arms lingered for half an hour. Now, the squid stays longer, hovering under the Artemis, doing God knows what.
Gideon thinks the creature has come to comfort us in our time of loss. I think it’s stalking us. It senses our weakness and is biding its time.
I hear its tentacles pressing against the hull at night. Suction cups attaching and releasing, toying with its prey until the right moment. It would eat us whole in the crunchy wrapping of our fiberglass boat if it could.
From the notebook of Captain C.J. Wyle, February 7
It should