We Float Upon a Painted Sea

The following day, Andrew had been encouraged by the sight of a flock of guillemots. He cut the engine and sat watching them for a while. He tried and failed to find the sun behind the grey folds of cloud. He needed better verification they were heading in an easterly direction. Bull lay on the centre bench, his fist held against his stomach and only moving at the behest of the faltering boat. He was awake but his eyes were shut. Andrew twisted his head and said, “I’ve just spotted some migrating birds, heading south for the winter, so I’m quite sure we’re on the right track.” Bull failed to see the significance. He had stayed in the cabin for most of the morning fighting the nauseating storm brewing within his stomach. He was determined to keep his breakfast down, but the ailing feeling of semi-digested Datrex ration bars moving from his gut and up through his oesophagus, and the distinctive burning sensation of vomit at the back of his throat was beginning to consume him. Bull could take no more. He rushed to the escape hatch and then on to the deck. He clasped the guard rails and retched. Uncoiling from his gaping mouth, the wind caught hold of his gastric discharge and sent it hurling towards Andrew. Bull’s ejection splattered across the Perspex windscreen. Andrew gripped the pilot’s wheel and frowned. His sea view had been replaced by a close-up of Bull’s vomit. Andrew flicked a switch and the screen wipers activated. He heard the escape hatch door close. Bull popped his head up inside the viewing turret and said,

“I feel so much better. I’m human again. I could do with a hot bath right now.”

“Yes, on that sentiment we can agree,” growled Andrew. Bull felt a new remoteness in Andrew’s tone of voice.

“You hardly smell like a bowl of potpourri yourself. When can I get a turn at driving?”

“I’m piloting this vessel and you’re the lookout, only you don’t seem to be doing a particularly good job of it at the moment. It was the same on the raft.”

“I’ve been ill.”

“Yes. I can see the evidence over my screen.” With a faint smile Bull said,

“I thought I would have my sea legs by now. Maybe it’s your driving,”

“Why don’t you try a spot of fishing? We’re running low on rations.”

“Are you sure you know where you are going? Surely we should have made land by now?” Andrew didn’t reply. Finally he heard the hatch door close behind him.

“Oh God have mercy on me,” bewailed Andrew, “Of all the passengers to survive the sinking of the Andrea Starlight, why did I have to end up with him? Ashley’s voice emerged in his mind, introducing a pang of guilt and making him consider his sentiment harsh. Hadn’t they already been through a great deal together? And his companion was most likely dealing with the mental and physical hardship in the best way he could. After all, they were dealing with the most trying circumstances.

Andrew returned his gaze to the grey sea outside. In the foreground, his eyes settled on Bull. He was standing on the deck, one hand holding onto the guardrail and struggling to keep his balance. He looked at him with more sympathetic eyes and then Bull lifted up his fur coat, pointed his appendage out towards the sea and began to piss. The wind blew the fountain of orange urinal discharge back across the deck and showered the viewing turret. Bull turned his head and offered Andrew a half-hearted apology. Andrew’s psychiatrist had once told him, in times of intense stress, he should imagine a well. The well represented a deep reserve of strength. The well was a source of reassurance and he was tasked to picture himself drawing a bucket from the well. With every pull of the rope he would feel the cerebral sinews stretch and the muscles of mental willpower resurge. At the time Andrew felt little comfort in the technique, but today he visualised his inner well. He visualised the rope in his hand but inadvertently, the bucket was slipping from his grasp, the rope burning his hands as it fell. Holding on as tightly as he could, the bucket had jolted to a halt and pulled him forward and falling into the well. Underwater, he felt the cold and the darkness take him. Struggling to the surface. Deep breaths. A brief moment of calm and then something else. Another had invaded his inner sanctuary. Unseen, hiding in the dark, but he knew the entity was there. Its form was revealing itself as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. It was watching and tormenting him. He fictionalised Bull emerging from the stagnant pool, his long black hair dripping wet, his arms extended and moving closer. Andrew snapped himself out of the nightmarish vision. The morsel of confidence acquired in the morning had departed with the guillemots. Andrew started the engine and the boat motored forward through the grey swells.

Later in the day the wind dropped and a thick fog encircled them. The lifeboat continued to power its way through the waves, rocking from side to side in a hypnotising manner. Andrew considered the wisdom of navigating blind through fog, but he felt it was a risk worth taking. It had been a long time since he had felt land under his feet and he was itching to feel the sensation again. His mind wandered back to his home in the Scottish borders. He imagined the aromatic smell of the golden autumn leaves as he trailed through the Ettrick Forest and the Eildon Hills. He remembered the fishing trips to the Tweed, sitting on the banks of the river with his thermos flask, eating freshly prepared sandwiches. He remembered his Grandfather telling him about the secret hollow of the Devil’s Beef Tub, where the Covenanters would hide from the dragoons in the 17th century. His mind was filled with visions of the waterfall at the Grey Mare’s Tail, the haunted castle of Neidpath and days out with the family at the Kelso races.

On deck Bull noticed a rope dragging behind the boat. He tried to loosen the knot by hand but eventually he gave up and returned to the cabin. He shouted to Andrew from the hatch door, asking if he could borrow his multi-tool. No answer came forth. Bull looked at Andrew’s lower torso, not able to see his head up inside the viewing turret. He described how the rope should have been tied up and how foolish they would feel if they ended up having to repair the propellers again. He shouted once more. Still no response. Bull noticed Andrew’s anorak draped over the centre bench. He slipped his hands into one of the pockets but instead of clutching a multi-tool, he pricked his finger on a fishing hook. Bull examined the lure, still lodged under his skin. He yanked it out and sucked his blood with his lips. Examining the lure, he was struck with the concept of the tail appearing to be made from a lock of human hair. He wondered how Andrew had come upon a hank of black hair. Instantly, he was taken by the horrifying notion of Andrew cutting his hair. Disturbingly, the vile act was committed while I was asleep, he thought. Bull was gripped by fury and went to the survival pack and withdrew a signalling mirror. It didn’t take long before his fears were confirmed and he discovered a sheared patch of hair on his scalp. He glared in Andrew’s direction and then the fishing lure. Once more back to the mirror. He stopped. There was something abnormal about the reflected background. The light didn’t seem right, he thought. It had an unnatural shimmer as it scattered through the portholes and danced erratically around the cabin. He turned his attention to his own reflection. Haggard eyes and the beard had aged him. He wanted to be sure the hair loss was on account of a blade before confronting Andrew.

Bull marched towards the pilot seat. His eyes narrowing as he focused on Andrew’s lower torso. He tapped him on the leg. There was no response. Bull stooped and twisted his head, taking a look up into the viewing turret. Andrew’s face was pressed against the pilot’s wheel. He was asleep. Bull shouted,

“Wake up you dopey bastard!” Andrew flinched. He muttered,

“What?” I was just resting my eyes,” Bull was now blind with anger. He had forgotten about his missing lock of hair. He shouted,

“You fell asleep at the wheel! We’re probably lost! Let’s see the compass?” Bull thrust his head up inside the viewing turret. The electronic compass displayed the word, calibrate. Bull hissed, “What’s going on Sherlock, why isn’t the compass calibrated.”

“I did calibrate it. Something has gone wrong. I’ve never trusted electronic compasses.”

“We’ve been motoring blind, towards the middle of nowhere. You’ve got us lost!”

“I was only cat napping. I’m perfectly aware…”

“No,” interrupted Bull, “If you were driving a bus full of school children and you fell asleep, you couldn’t say, sorry I must have taken forty winks. Pity about all the dead kids!”

Andrew was speechless. His eyes sparked back into life. He said,

“I can’t see the relevance considering I’m not driving a bus but piloting a boat, although there is a passenger acting like a child onboard. We’re not lost. I know roughly our location and for you to criticise me for sleeping is a wee bit rich.” Bull sniffed Andrew, suspecting alcohol for the reason behind his doziness at the wheel. Bull said,

“You’re talking shit Sherlock. If I sleep, it’s on my own time, not when I’m on duty and responsible for the safety of the boat and its crew. I don’t pretend to know much about marine safety, but I’m pretty sure travelling in the fog with no navigation instruments and a pilot sleeping at the wheel classifies as reckless.”

“You’re being melodramatic my friend. I could only have nodded off for a few seconds and why did you sniff me. It’s a strange habit and it’s not the first time...” Bull stretched his hand up inside the viewing turret and switched off the engine. Andrew grunted in annoyance. He climbed down from the pilot’s seat and followed Bull into the main cabin. Bull turned and said,

“If we had been sharing the driving we might have found land by now, but you have to be leader, you have to be captain, and you always have to be in charge. You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

“Enjoyingthis? Do you actually think I enjoy being imprisoned on this boat with you?

“Your enjoyment is irrelevant. Surviving and getting rescued is paramount and our chances are diminishing when you pretend to know what you’re doing. You’re either too proud or too stupid to admit it. I trusted you, and it takes a great deal for someone to earn my trust, and now I find out you’ve been snoozing at the wheel and leading us around in circles. Also, you’ve been creeping around cutting my hair while I was sleeping!” Bull held the fishing lure aloft. Andrew raised his eyebrows and said,

“Have you been going through my pockets without my permission? You’re no better than a thief. Are there no boundaries you won’t cross?

“You have a nerve. Did I give you permission to cut my hair? Where are your boundaries?”

“You’re overreacting. You liked the raw fish I caught. I couldn’t have hooked it without your unmanageable hair.” Bull’s lower jaw dropped in disbelief. He moaned,

“My hair is not unmanageable.”

“It’s thick and greasy. It’s full of split ends and frayed at the tips like buck tail. I wouldn’t get so precious about it.”

“It’s the salt water. It wreaks havoc with your hair and my diet of late can’t have helped?” He pointed to the supplies. “Not likely to be any avocado or buttermilk in there?”

“If there were, we wouldn’t be conditioning your hair with it.”

“It’s a pity there isn’t any strong coffee in the supplies, it might have kept you awake.”

“Coffee is a diuretic you fool, why would you need coffee in a survival situation when dehydration is of the utmost concern. I told you, I nodded off for just a few seconds…”

“Liar! For all I know you’ve been sleeping all the while, ever since we set off.” Andrew flushed viciously and looking towards the centre bench where Malcolm’s satchel lay, he snarled,

“Ok, I might have nodded off but it was an honest mistake. We all make mistakes. Fortunately, my mistake didn’t lead to a death. At least you saved his luggage, if not his life.”

Bull’s facial expression changed from bewilderment to hurt and then to anger. Andrew waited like a military general who had served off a volley of cannon fire and was anticipating the enemy’s response. He stared into Bull’s crimson face, his opponent’s lips trembling and small amounts of white foam seeping from the corners of his mouth. Andrew’s own lips curled into a withering sneer. Bull turned his head and stabbed a glance at Malcolm’s bag. He breathed sharply through his clenched teeth.

“It wasn’t like that. You said yourself he would have died anyway and I only took his bag because the strap got tangled around his neck.” Andrew shook his head and said,

“It’s clear to me you were only thinking about yourself and helping yourself to things that don’t belong to you. But I suppose this is a characteristic you readily portray in life.” Andrew’s derisory comment had hit the target with aplomb. He was starting to enjoy the discomfort he had dumped upon his fellow survivor when Bull leaned his head forward and said menacingly,

“I have another theory Sherlock. I think you would rather be lost at sea than return to your miserable life back home. You have nothing to return to. Not since your wife left you.” Andrew was taken aback. The flash in his eyes revealed his discomfort. Bull felt like a dog unearthing a bone. He walked to the middle of the cabin and leant against a pillar to aid his balance. As the boat rocked Bull continued, “And how many times did you offer to cast Malcolm overboard when the situation took a turn for the worst? What was he to you? A human sacrifice for the sea gods? So, spare me the lecture. You are just as concerned with self preservation as the next man.” Andrew felt the blood rising to the follicles of his hair. The cold sneer long since melted, he said,

“You really are an obnoxious, pathetic excuse for a man. It was me who tended Malcolm’s wounds while you slept. I kept him alive for as long as I possibly could. And you know nothing of my wife or life back home. You presumptuous fool.”

Andrew’s mind was lost in a red mist. Fists clenched, he growled and motioned himself towards Bull who held his ground, sniffing the air like a wild beast. Andrew was incensed with anger but undermining his rage was a growing apprehension of being confronted by a huge immoveable wall of damp fur. For the first time Bull’s eyes looked feral and menacing. Andrew took another step forward. Bull positioned himself for the oncoming assault, but in relinquishing his grip on the pillar, he lost his footing. He slipped on the wet floor and fell to his knees. Bull considered the notion, outside playground scraps, he had never physically come to blows with another man. Most potential assailants took one look at his formidable size and walked away, but he doubted if Andrew was the scrapping sort either. Finally, Andrew broke the tense silence. “I wish I had let you drown,” he said, pronouncing each word slowly to deliver maximum effect. To Andrew’s surprise, Bull’s face recoiled in dismay. Slumping against the bulkhead, he wailed,

“What type of human being are you?” Andrew remained rooted to the spot like a triumphant boxer, his knees positioned to give him maximum balance. He remained still, his chin protruding in defiance of his larger adversary. Perversely, he felt fearsome, filled with pride and antagonism. He had never stooped to the base savagery of male fighting, but he believed, in this situation, his actions would be justified. The tension only subsided when a large swell struck the lifeboat and knocked Andrew to the floor. He only stopped sliding when he collided with Bull.

Curiously, Bull stiffened and held his index finger up as a warning to Andrew not to utter a word. From outside came a distinctive thump on the hull. It startled both men and pierced the testosterone filled atmosphere like a hot needle pricking a balloon. Staring anxiously into each others petrified eyes, they listened to the muffled sounds of something flapping around outside on the deck. The noise echoed around the cabin. Andrew thought back to the shark attack on the raft and later, when the pod of whales had circled them. Bull remembered watching a news article about West African pirates hijacking boats and taking slaves in the North Atlantic. He prepared himself for the worst.

Their belligerent affectation had subsided and hastened to a panicking embrace. Andrew gripped Bull’s fur coat tightly. His face had contorted with the thought of an unexplained terror boarding the vessel and investigating potential ways into the cabin. He looked towards the hatch and wondered if it had been locked. Bull snatched at Andrew’s anorak like a child holding a comfort blanket. From the corner of his eye Andrew saw a shadow pass the porthole. He stabbed a hasty look at Bull, his face a picture of torment. He wished he could recall his harsh words. He knew they had only been borne out of pettiness and anger. He wanted to apologise by telling him he was glad to have rescued him and was glad to have met him, despite their differences, but time seemed to freeze.

Three loud thumps on the hatch door sounded and then the handle rattled violently. Finally, they heard the unmistakeable sound of human voices, subdued at first but distinctly human and speaking English in various accents. The intense moment of panic evaporated. Andrew and Bull let go of each other as if repulsed by their brief intimate moment. They moved towards the entrance hatch and engaged the locking mechanism. As the door opened a bearded face appeared, blocking out the daylight. The man said,

“Hello, anyone onboard?” Andrew stepped forward. He asked,

“Thank you God.”

“No, thank you Robert McIntyre would be a more appropriate greeting.” He pointed behind his shoulder and said, “This is Ty Kurt. How many crew members are onboard?”

Bull, his spirits soaring as it dawned on him he was going to live through his nightmare said, “It’s just who you see standing in front of you.” There was a pause as Bull examined McIntyre’s uniform. He said, “Are you the Coast Guard?” McIntyre smiled and then said,

“In a previous life but not anymore. The Captain of the GM vessel the RV Mother Earth will explain everything to you and maybe you can help him with his lost ship.”

“Why would we know anything about a missing ship?”

“You’re in her lifeboat. They lost contact with her several days ago but continued to search. We were hoping to find some surviving members of the crew.”

“We were in a life raft but it sunk in a storm and luckily we came across this boat. We were heading for the mainland but I think we got lost.” Bull turned and stabbed a wry look at Andrew.

McIntyre looked Bull up and down, mystified at his choice of attire. He said,

“When you showed up on our radar, you were heading away from the Hebrides and out to open sea, but for the last twelve hours you’ve been going round in circles. You must have activated the tracking device which allowed us to locate you. But enough questions, let us get you onboard the Mother Earth and out of this odd clothing. There is a peculiar smell like a dead monkey coming from inside the cabin.”

Tears, driven by relief, welled up in Bull’s eyes. His mind full of more questions than answers, but he was content to allow his curiosity to settle for a while. He returned to the centre bench and upon picking up Malcolm’s leather satchel, he noticed the rusted lock had given way. Inside, the contents were wrapped in a heavy duty polythene dry bag. He opened it and found a number of items. He examined the Tilley hat, a pair of round metal spectacles and a photograph of a young girl. Bull studied the image, his eyes wide with curiosity. Written on the back of the photograph was written: Saffron, Calgary Bay, Mull. Summer 2033. Bull stuffed everything back inside the leather satchel apart from the photograph. He followed Andrew along a gangplank from the lifeboat and onto McIntyre’s cutter. He took his seat and gazed at the vessel which had been their home for the last few days. On the side of the boat was an inscription they hadn’t noticed before: The Flower Child.