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THAT SINKING FEELING -- Mike Morgan Alone, alone, all alone Alone on a wide wide sea And never a saint that took pity on My soul in agony --The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Albatross 1: Any of various large web- footed seabirds that are related to the petrels and include the largest seabirds 2 a: something that causes persistent deep concern or anxiety b: something that greatly hinders accomplishment. Ker-Thwack!!! His head smacked against something hard. He came to on the rock. He took a look around him. All he could see was blue ocean and sky. He had no idea where he was, or how he got there. It was a giant, craggy rock, jutting up out of the sea. It loomed over him. He clambered up the rock and perched himself upon its apex. Was he alive, or had he died, and this was some kind of cruel joke? The throbbing in his right arm assured him that it was real. He looked for the cause of his pain. He noticed an ugly, red and black welt, running from his shoulder to his wrist: a burn perhaps? It hurt like fury. In his ignorance and pain, he scaled down the rock to soak his wound in the salt water: a big mistake. Back atop the peak, he gazed out over the vastness of the ocean. All of his life, he had dreaded the water. The sole memory that he could muster up was when he was a child, and a big man was throwing him into the river while yelling, "It's the only way to learn, son." Thank god for the rock. He knew that if he had been conscious in the water, his fear of it would've killed him. Something had gotten him here. Maybe something, or somebody, would get him out of here. There was nothing to do but sit, and to wait it out. He slept for a few hours. When he awoke, it was night. In the pitch black, he huddled on the rock, shivering, scared and thirsty. He drifted in and out of a fitful sleep. At one point, he imagined he saw a bright yellow sky on the horizon. Was it a fire, a ship, the lights of a city, or was he just seeing things? The next morning brought a new fear to his already panic-stricken mind. The rock was getting smaller. It was sinking. What was he sitting on: the top of a mountain? Was this the only visible remnant of a vanishing continent? He remembered learning once that the tallest mountains in the world are in the ocean, and how it took billions of years for lands and seas to form. How could such a thing happen overnight? It was the water, the very body that he feared so immensely, that gave him sustenance. Flotsam and jetsam floated by. Was a ship wrecked? Was he close to a beach? A small box was tossed onto the rock by the tide, and he scurried down to get it. It was made out of wood, and it had a clumsy, floral carving on the lid. He opened it. It was a sewing kit. He searched the contents of the box for some sort of clue that could explain his whereabouts: "Made In China," that was it. "Geez, all sorts of junk was made in China." If he knew that, why couldn't he recall what had happened to him? He might as well be anywhere. He fashioned a makeshift hook out of the sewing needles and safety pins. He tied this to the cotton reel, and cast off. Within an hour, he had caught half a dozen small fish, which he devoured raw, one by one. He remembered, from somewhere, that the water in a fish's gullet was akin to fresh water. He took solace that, for the meantime, he would not starve to death or expire from dehydration. How much longer could he survive on such a bizarre diet? His loss of all sense of time only added to his confusion. He had tried to count the days, or what he perceived to be as days, by scraping niches in the rock with a metal thimble. One morning, he could no longer find his markings. He did not know if he had imagined making them, or whether they too were victims of the ongoing sinking and vanishing act that was tormenting him. He passed out. He was startled out of his oblivion by the sensation of a heavy weight on his chest. He opened his eyes and was confronted by a large seabird, perched a few inches away from his face. It was covered with a black sooty substance. The bird cawed loudly, flapping its wings angrily as it flew to the other side of the rock. From a distance, it settled into a nestling position and eyeballed him, like some patient scavenger waiting to feast on carrion. He heard this high-pitched whining coming out of the sun, and the noise level increased to a scream. Then he heard a different sound...a rat-a-tat-tat, and he saw the water spurt up around him. His wounded arm was stung by rock fragments that were flying in every direction. An ominous black shadow passed over him. In a split second, it was gone. Would the strafer come back? If it did, he was a goner. There was no place to hide. He gazed up at the disappearing airplane and saw the symbol on its wings: a bright red sun. Ka-Boom!!! He was on duty below-deck when the first torpedo struck the hull of his ship. He remembered: the screams of his fellow stokers as the boiler pipes were severed, and men were seared to death by the very steam that they had created; the mad rush to the deck, only a step ahead of the rising water; the noise, fire and absolute chaos that greeted him top-side. He remembered: grabbing a life vest; momentarily overcoming his fear of the water, because nothing could be worse than the holocaust surrounding him; diving into the churning sea; and frantically trying to swim away from the inferno. His final memories of that horrific experience were the ocean being engulfed by oil and flames, and the weird creak and groan that the ship made as its back finally broke, and it slid to the bottom. And he remembered blacking out. There was barely any room left to sit on the rock. Was it really sinking, or was the sea level rising? The bird had abandoned its post and was circling slowly, high above him. Why couldn't he have died with his mates, instead of being stuck here, all alone, in the middle of nowhere? They often used to talk about being hit. "When it happens, let it be quick," that was the general consensus. "If you're in the water, your chances of survival are slim. If the sun doesn't get you, the sea will. It's drown or be devoured by predators." He had joined the merchant navy as a result of pressure from his father: a decision he had always regretted, now more than ever. He'd have been a sailor, regardless of the war. That's what his dad, himself a retired bosun, wanted. He had always tried to please his father. He swam, even though he hated swimming. He sailed, even though he was terrified of the sea. When he received the telegram, informing him of his father's sudden death, he felt both foresaken and betrayed. He was aboard an oiler on the high seas when the news came. What was the point? Now, he was stuck with what it all came down to. Maybe it was a result of his poor choice or his inability to stand up to his strong-willed father: that, or a bad break. As the water lapped around his ankles, he wondered what they would tell his mother: "Lost at Sea"..."Missing in Action." He remembered hugging his family goodbye on the docks of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. His mother's last words to him were, "Don't worry son, God will take care of you. We'll say a prayer for you every Sunday at Saint Augustine's. You'll come back." And then there was no rock, just water. __________________ |