Lion In The Waves

Takka Takka – Lion In The Waves

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There were eight of us the night our ship sank off the coast of Cape Hatteras; by morning there were two. The eldest had resigned himself to wishful thinking and awoken not man, but whittled tobacco pipe and curried lemongrass. The others surrendered their beings to similar fates. I awoke, bleary-eyed, to an oar and concertina by the name of James McBride, a bottle of brandy, half-emptied from bobbing, that whistled the words “Kiernan Jones” when coerced by southeasternly winds. The less imaginative of the group had vanished altogether, leaving nothing behind but dust, twine, and a half-deck of cards between the lot.

Sullivan Brown turned into a woman after eight days at sea.

The transformation had been immediate. One blink from man to red tresses and sapphire rings. Moments later he’d fashioned himself into pistol and powder enough for two shots.

I sat there then, in a boat of dust, twine, and brandy and waited. I dreamt of platters burdened by an abundance of jams and bread. I thought of Giselle in Madrid and pursued several unfortunate games of Whiskey Poker courtesy Timothy Daniels, my half-deck.

I welcomed death but rose morning after morning without thirst or hunger; I never burned, I craved not once; my lips remained moist despite an inescapable love affair with sea spray, and I knew, then and there — after 91 days away from hull and home — that god had turned his back on me, that this was how it felt to be doomed, through and through, by physical contentment in a time of crippling internal despair.

It had been 83 days since Sullivan Brown fashioned himself into pistol and powder enough for two shots.

Day 91 found me thinking he needn’t have bothered with so much powder.

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