The Waters High

“The mixture of snow and rain bit the side of our ship like the teeth of a wolf. Captain never said anything about running into winter twice in one trip, he only spoke of the luxurious voyage from the beginning of our winter, up here north, down to the start of their summer in the far south. His idea of a quick fortune is the granite that constructs the statue of depravity. A man so far gone he never tried to find his way back.”
November 20
Jackson Dour

November 22nd, the moon had quietly risen to its highest point without a trace of noise escaping her landscape. The Maiden melodically rocked back and forth, brushing against the rolling waves of the seas. These blankets of another unknown world would spew upon the deck at times just as a tiny portal to the habitat underneath. Not a soul stirred on board, the captain’s quarters lamp had been doused quite a few hours before midnight. The crew lay asleep, with the exception of the watch, the only audible actions were the creaking of the hammocks as they swayed back and forth, or the snores and grunts of hardened sailors who kept laying on either their, left, right, stomach, back, or any possible combination of positions to find the warmest alternative to the bitter breath mother nature issued on her subjects.
The night crew stalked the deck as phantoms. Avoiding the open air and attempting to find any crevice where the wind was absent from, behind barrels, between mast and railing. Tonight was a night no one wished to be aboard. The regular rounds from the quarter deck to the main deck to the poop deck and so on and so forth were abandoned. Each member was craving the captain to announce “All night in!” and ride out the weather in a warmer climate in the above-water hull. The fast-blowing chilling breeze was a terrifying factor of the present darkness. The paths of the wind, and the avenues it passed through twisted the presence of voice. Moans and faint whispers were claimed to be heard all throughout the boat. These complaints had grown much more common in the latter days, the captain had ignored them for the most part for who could be stealing away and frightening his crew with mediocre whispers when he was surrounded on all four sides by the walls of the horizon and the outside turf, the great Atlantic. These notions of ghosts had quietly arisen among the crew usually when they all had gathered together and kept up the different lore and myths each sailor had accumulated throughout his numerous journeys. No matter the allotment of men who gathered no party could sway the other, the captain remained firm and his crew, deep down, knew that they were correct at least most likely they believed.
The crew had decided as a conglomerate to logically attempt to speak with the oppressors of the wind and dark. The crew was on its third part of a three piece trip, the first motion was down to the tip of Africa, better known as South Africa. The second section was capture a numerous amount of slaves, that was what harvested all the time they had planned for the escapade, and the third and final fragment was to return back safely sell the slaves and live lives of many financial blessings. Not a single crewmen had a different idea in his head, the thoughts of unison is what brought them in for if there was division the act of acceptance of something larger than them, the possible ghosts, would have been nearly impossible. Different approaches had been attempted, and the severe scolding by the captain had ensued. Apparently Ol’ Cap’n was not fond of the sacrifice of one of his acres of future housing project to the deliverance of the so called “evil spirits”. Taking a new stance on the situation the crew decided to cooperate with, what they viewed no more than livestock, the slaves they held on their boat. None of the slaves spoke even close to a similar language as any of the crew members, but that did not put a stop to their persistence. The crew had simply grabbed a slave at the ankles and wrists tossed him out the mess doors. The slave, naturally having no idea on what was happening was rather intuitive and rushed back at the doors hoping to be let back in. the crew held stout though and refused re-entry. The crew saw results when the slave began trembling and would quickly slip on the deck or start to cry, they believed all these signs were strong points toward the ghosts trying to communicate. Sadly they were deceived; the slaves were dressed in their mediocre native attire, loincloths. The shivering was from the cold that these Africans had never faced, slipping was due to the fact of never being out so far on the ocean and being chained and sitting for so long not used to the weight distribution of one foot before the other, and the tears were simple human expressions of fear and hatred for the current position. So the crew had gathered a pile of false information, but it satisfied their need.
On the night of November 22nd though the crew had built up the reserve for such an excursion from terrified avoidance to immediate confrontation; naturally the only one’s deemed responsible with this endeavor were the night crew. The bold watchmen took up their positions and despite the winter air awaited any signs of revealing evidence. Members walked the deck peering into the murky waters, or gazed out on a banished world sunken in complete darkness. A battle for life and death raged within each keeper of the night. The battle consisted of two predominant sides, one of fear and one of virtue. Life struggled with the aspect of never escaping the flooding feeling of her opponent, fear, and death was entangled with a slippery subject of virtue who put forth all its effort into escaping this inevitable outcome. A lifelong standstill held the main line of the fight, and both sides have had their moments of small victories. When one chooses the high path over the immoral one virtue takes several paces forward, and when moments of one’s stomach being knotted up and about to be released through one’s mouth to the point of not residing in a single area besides another’s bed, and in these visuals of life fear tugs harder at the true living, or the neck, of life. As these battles waged on for each personally; the men kept a wary eye out for any communication with the other realm creatures. Till the shriek of a female rose from under the main deck to the top of the center mast and sent a red streak of panic through every living being on the Maiden herself. Each man awake woke from their daze and stood at arms, until the fatal announcement that the noise had been issued through the agonized throat of a young African girl who had woken up to three rats laying on her stomach; a false alarm but a worthy performance by the Maiden’s guardians.
The announcement of the fluked horror set each sailor at ease until they felt as if either the wind picked itself up or their expected ghosts began chatting away at the moment. But this too quickly ended and all was set to peace. The night wore on as a rather tight shirt, uncomfortable and the fear that someone was watching and making judgments of how to approach the wearer of the material and inform them in fact they were not flattering.
The days wore on and the crew felt less and less that there was any more of a ghost threat. The captain claimed that, as he had stated many times before, the ghost threat was irrelevant for the existence of these ghosts was impossible. A week had passed on the Maiden and nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
The night of November 30th brought the decimation of many unsuspecting sailors. The night began as every other night had started. The wind began to become rather ferocious but the captain still persisted for hands on deck and so not everyone was out of the weather. It seemed, at present, on the boat that no place of normal seclusion from the wind. All the old hiding spots were useless for the wind was tearing right through each one. The waves were as a pack of wild beasts gnawing at the hull and the sides of the vessel, occasionally the beasts would fling themselves upon the sailors and the gnashing of teeth would be brought in the forms of freezing water and powerful surges. The Maiden was against nature herself and many crewmembers had the sinking feeling of the end; hardly did they know the beginning of their own demise. Rain began to fall, and as missiles from the heavens the precipitation was a veil that hindered the vision of just ten feet in front of each man, the tripping and the collision of bodies ensued after the rain began its initial downfall. It was customary for each ship at night to keep a lantern hanging from the crows nest to hopefully save any shipwrecks among fellow boats. This one particular night Jackson Dour was the man in the crows nest on November 30th. He was an avid keeper of a journal and attempted to write in it nearly every day of the journey and had documented many extraordinary moments. Jackson Dour though, from his perch saw for the first time in about 5 fortnights another lantern hanging not so far from his. Jackson alerted the deck who alerted the captain who rushed out onto starboard trying to catch a glimpse of the other ship. The captain sent orders left and right to prepare for an attack, and then he would tell them to prepare for a friendly run-in, and even he would tell the man in charge of the rudder to go off course so as the colliding of the two ships would not entail afterwards. Whatever the excitement the only thing that could be documented for certain was that it seemed this other vessel was coming their way. The crew took this sign as a shift in luck and prepared themselves accordingly to the captain’s whimsical demands.
The other boat approached, known as the Seeker, once it was within an arms length of the Maiden the men could tell it had the depiction of a floating graveyard. The dead silence was an eerie noise to pay heed to. The absence drew the crew closer to the attraction of what seemed to be an abandoned vessel. The captain broke the silence,
“Men! Alas! I shall not lose you to witches end! Awake from your accursed slumber! We must see what is in store for us. Gather your arms and jump ship!”
These sailors gathered their weapons, stashing a small pistol in their sash, hooking a belt with a scimitar, or rapier, or some steel to the hip, and finally retrieving their rifles from the casket and reuniting them with life. Once the mad rush for their weaponry had finished and the next task was to board the Seeker not a brave soul stepped forward. The deficiency of talk promoted a feeling of absolute fear. Cautiously and then very soon frantically each sailor tried to get behind the other so the captain, when he started choosing specifically, would not have a visual of them and remove their name from his memory. Behind the backs of all members the cook had shut and locked the mess door removing any chance of complete retreat back into the belly of the ship. If the removing one’s manhood and if he was shunned from the earth itself were an option for any one man onboard it was certain that man would, without question, take the offer than step foot on the other ship aligned with theirs, the Seeker had been hooked onto the Maiden, thus it dipped when she dipped, it swayed when she swayed. Both boats were simultaneously caught in a trance, moving for the sake of motion, and the dance of these two floating graves continued on, and would through eternity unless ceased.
The captain had finally convinced a vast selection of the crew to search the other vessel with him once he assured extra rations would be heading their way. The search crew had reached the other boat and timidly scoured the main deck. The captain decided a further investigation was necessary of what seemed to be a desolate craft, if only these sailors had a keener eye and had taken a second glance towards the mess door they might have been more prepared for the sudden fling of the door and the captain of the Seeker stroll absently through. Reciting an ancient rhyme,
“The rogue of the waves, the renegade of the open sea.
Boarded but without fear, fronted beach, castle of ivory.
Built and re-built made of sand, towering over its inhabitants
Crusted with ocean froth the coast raids its own.
Ride me hearty ride.”
And at that instant a horde of pirates rushed from the mess door of the Seeker clad in the most fearsome outfits and armed to their very teeth. Chanting, “Scare the mariners, shake the ocean!”
The sudden terror that coursed through the bodies of the sailors can only be described as frozen notion, as if their blood had turned to ice and their joints from flesh to rocks. Before a single one could compose themselves one sailor was slain, struck from the left of his neck to the right, dismembering the man’s head clean from the rest of his body. These pirates did not waste a second when blood was to be spilt. Luckily the sailors had recovered after the initial shock of the charge and the loss of a fellow brother. They retaliated for they were not helpless babes at the hands of cutthroats but merely greenbacks at the hands of veteran murderers. Coincidentally many of the sailors had taken fencing lessons and other forms of fighting at least to the level of beginner so they had the potential to raise their weapons with a sense of pride. The terrible noise of metal striking metal arose and the symphony of war began. The orchestra of the heavens played their own piece dramatically and rapidly lights flashed, the wind blew, the air was moist with the notes of precipitation pitter-patting from the tops of the earth to the man made floor of the globe. Rain was not the only thing that seemed to gather at the floor of the Seeker. Blood spilt like newly unearthed springs, sending the liquid to all four corners of the carrier of death occupied by these warriors. Teeth gritted as arms clasped and union between forged steel and man was brought to pass. It was as if the royal duke had personally handed each fighter a letter to give to as many individuals as he could that night and the only logical messenger was the tip of a razor sharp object. Blood mixed with sweat and rain forming a compound that exhausted the mental and physical capacities of each crew. Neither side seemed to be gaining ground on the slippery deck, nor did not one man take his eye off of his opponent in fear of losing his finite life. Every measure of conquering the other was put into practice as spit and rope were flung, barrels were rolled and at the moment of obvious slaughter an escape over the boat’s edge was issued forth. No man looked back as he swung forth his sword; every bridge he had crossed was instantly burned and the only hope left lingering was a dawn of a new horizon.
Torn material lay scattered on the deck and throughout the Seeker. The fighting began intensifying and not a soul could escape it. The Maiden’s crew left behind came rushing forth as a second wind to the exhausted warriors. The Seeker had a chorus of tombstones waltzing with one another until called upon to drop. The awful noise of the battle blocked the ear from hearing or the eye from noticing. Jackson Dour remained in his crows nest observing the raging battle and sat comfortably passive towards any sort of harmful engagement. Survival was what ran through his bones and he realized that charging needlessly into a lost situation was not a personal natural selection. Bullets flew below him as the landscape does in a box car, swords carved delicate flesh into a more edible size.
The battle raged on and gradually the Maiden crew was run ashore, the shipwrecked dream lay before many closing eyes and rolling tongues. The crew developed into a tight circle at the finale of their grand escapade many were delirious to pain or felt as if they had been fighting for more hours than one could count on a single hand for the other had been blown to pieces. The captain stood before his troops throughout the battle fearlessly. Quitting the life of many a pirate and taking consistent hits to vital areas, sadly earlier he had been cut down by a man with a scimitar; who had begun his main course with a tender upper cut and removed the chin and most of its counterparts from the captain ever so rudely. His remaining blows lay in the realm of exaggeration for just a single shot to the head would have finished the crazed captain; who viewed the man with a thirst for one last dying soul’s physical representative. The captain ran his sword into the man’s heart, straight and true with a precision developed only through time. Yet as if the captain was a priest and gave the man one last dying wish he wished for the end of the Maiden’s head and as a dismembered reptile she simply slithered harmlessly back and forth striking at random points and not succeeding by any degree of skill. Her life was handed over and the pirates searched the rest of her. The slaves were transferred over and the Maiden was towed behind with a sole passenger onboard and who had deceived anyone of his existence. Dour remained in his crows nest, knowing his demise was inevitable because he could not permit his exit from the nest for he would surely be spotted and surely be put to death, or worse sent to the dungeon and the life tortured out of him.
Jackson Dour lay without food or water for many days simply journaling his observations. In the day he could pay to just sneak his head above the wall level and at night the lack of light prevented him from descending. He had never been a drastic man till this trip and he still fought the impulses, which appeared at a scarce random. Dour kept imagining the foe at his doorstep waiting to take his precious and his home, for now Jackson Dour viewed his journaling as the only thing that halted him from walking the straight and narrow to death’s door and entering the party for he was expected. A phobia and a sickness developed and he found no desire to ever leave his crows nest till the day of his death which occurred shortly after the delirious sickness had started, and such a sad day for a quiet man who lay in a crows nest fearing the outside world. Jackson Dour wrote to distract the pain of every physical desire burdening his senses. These senses rapidly disappeared and he wrote for that is all he knew, and all he spoke.
The night air of December 19th the skies lay too revealing as they kissed the sun creating a red pinkish gold and certified a still morning. The pedals of the first light had presently opened and what seemed to welcome in a beautiful day quickly was tramped upon by the ugliness of the faction of pirates releasing the Maiden to float around Britain until waterlogged and finished, for nothing of value existed upon the ship and they had no more need to tow a hassle.
Jackson Dour stayed onboard to keep guard, with his eyes shut and his ears muted, his mouth closed and his arms frozen. The color had left his skin which had departed as well and nothing was left to be picked at by roaming sea gulls. His silent stare fought off more potential battles than an armada of smiling lads. He was more feared in death than revered in life yet more cautious in life than its partner. The commodore of his own ship Dour could have been considered a king in his earthly possessions, but he preferred the role of the scribe, documenting life. He stayed, un-removed from his post he fought another day with his fountain sword held by one grasp and the other palm was the paper shield. Two formidable works of art lay as evidence that this fossil once was in motion.

“I have been removed from society so long I do not remember the moral and immoral of modern man. I was raised differently than anyone else and I must preserve the sanctity of this ship if it means my life, which is already drawing to a close. Some days I will have to suspiciously articulate I feel as if I can hear the captain behind me mourning our loss. Or the cook call for dinner and my intentions to join my comrades is shattered by reality. I only wish to finally join them in my final adventure and travel across the shiny waters of this dimension to the next, this life to what is beyond it.”
December 1st
Jackson Dour