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The front deepened and veered directly towards them. The sea grew rougher. Huge swells lifted the Southern Promise up and down. The ship heeled backwards into a thirty-degree incline. It climbed and climbed. She couldn’t imagine a wave so big. In her mind’s eye it rose half-way to the moon.
The ship levelled off but didn’t feel right, it hung, instead of floating. The engine thumped loudly.
Oya’s heart moved to her throat; fear of the next part swelled. She grabbed hold of the bunk railing and held tight, waiting. With the suddenness of a pendulum dropping from the top of its swing the ship fell. A pillow tumbled past her head, the few things on the table clattered down the cabin, the chair slid and tipped over.
The crash almost ripped her grip away. The noise of grinding metal was like a dozen cars hitting a dozen trucks. Rivets pinged; small explosions of metal almost lost in the rest of the noise. The ship fought to come back level. It heeled sideways, left, then right. Oya tried to guess what damage may have been done.
The ship continued to wallow and slide up and down normal size storm waves. But now the engine was grinding, an ugly, destructive noise. Oya tipped the chair back up, slid it to the desk, then opened the door. Water slopped over the sill; a thick wash rolled along the hall. She looked left and saw Jürgen.
“Get your things!” He shouted. We need to go topside.”
“In this?”
Jürgen nodded and waved an arm towards her. She looked back in the cabin but couldn’t think of anything she needed. She’d put her full wet weather suit on when the storm began, it was instinct. Her documents were back in their waterproof inner pocket, the phone and watch were in a desk draw, but dead and without the technology to revive them for another fifty years or so. She stepped over the sill and sloshed through the water, her arms out like correctional vanes, letting her bounce off the walls as the boat continued to roll.
“What’s happening?” she shouted as she neared Jürgen.
“We’re taking on water. Captain wants us ready to abandon if necessary.”
The ship lurched in another huge swell. Oya and Jürgen fell, and slid along the gangway, cold water surging around them. They crashed into the stairway, and both grabbed for handholds. The ship surged up another wave, and the water raced back down the corridor. They hauled themselves up the slippery steps, fighting to maintain balance.
The bridge felt full, six men plus the captain, who gripped the helm. Jürgen pointed to a spot at the back near the radio. “Stand over there.”
Oya grabbed a handhold and stood silently, staring out the bridge window. The sky was gunmetal gray, the water dark green. Now that she could see the oncoming waves and where Vardr positioned the ship to meet them, it was easier to maintain her balance. She caught a few glances from the other sailors. Most of them were questioning looks, one appeared hostile, a glare suggesting the man thought the storm was somehow her responsibility. She looked away, watching another wall of water race towards them. As they crested it the engines cut out.
“Ah dritt,” Jürgen said.
The Captain spoke rapidly in Norwegian, and the other seamen started moving for the doors on either side of the bridge, only Jürgen remained. Vardr pulled a heavy bakelite phone from its cradle and spoke into it, shortly after a klaxon began blaring. Now he turned to Oya.
“Go with Jürgen. He’ll take you to your assigned boat.”
“And you?”
“I’ll keep her as stable as possible.”
“How? There’s no— Hey!“
Jürgen dragged her by the arm. “We must go.”
Oya glared at him, then looked back at Vardr.
“Go,” Vardr ordered.
Outside the gale clawed them, it sprayed salt water in their faces, and made the deck underfoot treacherous. They clung to the rails on the way to the lifeboats swinging in their davits. Two were already filling. Before Oya and Jürgen made it to theirs the first boat began sliding down the side of the ship.
Jürgen helped Oya to clamber in and began winching the lifeboat over the edge.
“Who else is in this boat?” Oya shouted over the howling wind.
“No one. Hold tight.”
Lightning rent the sky, tearing a stitch of purple whiteness from cloud to the prow of the ship. The rich odor of ozone came thick and strong, the thunder was like recordings Oya had listened to of lions terrorizing their prey. The sky split again, this time crashing onto the davit holding the lifeboat. Jürgen was thrown back and slid towards the stern as the ship clawed up the front of another wave. The lifeboat shook in its mounting. The smell of burning rope filled Oya’s nostrils. She looked at the blackened mass of metal, wood, and rope where the lightning had struck. The rope smoldered and frayed as the small boat swung back and forth.
Oya slammed the release panel and gripped the bench-seat as the lifeboat plummeted. It crunched into the water, pressing her into the bottom of the boat. The boat banged against the side of the ship, scraping wood against metal. Fearful that a roll of the ship may push her under Oya grabbed an oar and pushed hard against the hull. Slowly they drifted apart. Wind blew and purple lightning flashed, the lifeboat drifted up and down waves that were dark green and flecked through with white foam.
Oya lifted a wooden seat at the prow of the small boat. Beneath it were food and water, enough for five people for five days. Exposure wouldn’t take that long. Only a miracle would save her, and she’d already had one recently.
She sat in the bottom of the boat, braced between seat planks, and watched lightning strikes become brighter in a darkening sky. They flashed around her, making the sea shine where the struck, raising small columns of steam that were whipped sideways and swiftly dispersed by the wind.
The dark was long, and cold. As it went on the storm abated. Oya often sailed solo, but she’d never felt so alone and hopeless. She always had the backstop of a connected world. Sometimes, when sailing, she’d wondered what the early soloists had thought when the storms raged, and the sky was black. Now she knew. At least, if she survived, she could see whales. Maybe even do more. The thought gave her purpose as night’s black began fading, she decided to survive.
The waves reduced in height. The clouds thinned enough to show the sun’s disc as it rose. She ate some rations, set the oars, and began rowing. She knew they’d been heading back to South Georgia, she knew they had been south-west of the island. She tried not to think about missing it.
By late afternoon she was exhausted. She shivered, her face was numb. She pulled the oars in and rested against the stern, fumbled a ration pack open and chewed on the thick brick of flour, fat, and sugar inside. It was an impossible task. One person, in an open boat, with no compass. The muscles in her back, thighs, and arms, burnt like molten lead. Her stomach ached from the dense, crude rations. Her ears echoed with the mournful wind, the creak of the oars, and the slap of water on the wooden boat.
In the distance a bird was in the air, this far out it must be an albatross. Exhaustion made focusing on the creature impossible, but she watched its dark shape hanging in the sky, riding the winds with nary a wing beat. She closed her eyes.
text by stuartcturnbull, picture by GB_photo via Pixbay
Part One Here
Part Two Here
Part Three Here
Part Four Here
Part Five Here
Part Six Here