Ch1 - Children of Tegalupa

Ch 1 - The Children of Tegalupa

Ocean Currents

The Old Man knew that this would happen. His words cling to the back of my mind like some strange fungus, “There is a man who provides a passage. Oceans will conceal him. He is not a door. He is a way. His survival is linked to your own.”

His words. My hands. One rope.

The January storm is one of the worst that I have ever seen. A saner man would be below decks in the shelter of the boat’s massive steel walls. But there is a life out there, adrift in the ocean, tied to the end of this rope. With two hands I pull. The rope bites.

Winds threaten to push us over. Waves try to wash us away. Our boat from bow to stern is one hundred and forty meters long. A football field is a bit shorter than that. Once, she was a great warship. Then they hollowed her out and fit her for trade. Her name is Damesquela, damsel of the oceans. She dances like a wallowing pig as the waves lift her rounded body to the sky.

The storm pounced upon us as quickly as a cat on a mouse. I was on deck as the heavy rains picked up speed. I caught a flash of white. White means officer, captain or commander. He was standing there, and then he was gone. A boat without a captain is a very bad thing. People begin to talk. Strange things happen to a vessel when the commander is suddenly removed.

I rushed to the side and spotted white dancing within the blue. A line was tossed. The floater found purchase. My hands hold his life. He is mine now, an obligation that must be seen through to the end.

The ocean is selfish. She always wants too much. I brace against the cold of the storm and wrap the rope around my hips. Once again I lean in and pull. The first mate we will claim.

As the deck pitches up, I stare in wonder towards the boiling clouds. The falling wetness expands and contracts in the swirling winds. For a moment, it seems as if the sky is breathing. Bright flickers of lightning skitter through the towering columns. This thing is full of life.

Electric tongues spit along horizontal lines. The storm grows braver and stronger. Hairs stand on my arms. Pain shoots through my teeth. The storm finds its courage. Her seeds are planted along the ocean waves.

Huge trees of brightness sprout from the ocean’s skin. The force is so great that the sky rips along its seam. Steady rain becomes a deluge. Concussive explosions bombard us like artillery shells. Ozone fills our senses. We will remain deaf for some time.

My feet fight for purchase upon the frozen deck. The rope shifts. The deck rolls. Men on the rope scramble to stay upright. I quickly tie the end of the line tightly to the starboard railing. With a length of torn fabric, that I rip from my shirt, I bind myself to the ship as well.

The men working with me regain their balance. Moving as one, backs lean into the fight. We struggle with the corded rope once more.

“Pull!” Fifteen men cry out as one. Coils of hardened muscle twitch and flex.

“Pull!” The dark ocean gives us inches.

“Pull!” The deck shifts. The ship rolls. Two more men go over the rail. Weight shifts with the loss of muscle. Thirteen remaining men fight to keep their hold.

Some men have gloves and some do not. The friction of the sliding rope burns like fire. Flesh pulls from my hands in short ragged strips. The ooze that bubbles up grows sticky. It acts like a glue helping me to maintain my grip. Bright red upon shades of grey is a definite sign of life.

With life there is shadow. Shadows remind us of our weight. It is the thought of the shadow that turns my thoughts to The Old Man. His presence lingers right there in the corner of my eye. I call to him. I pray for some kind of encouragement now. I scream out for The Old Man’s attention. As loud as my voice is, I still compete with the roaring wind and pouring rain.

“Is he alive, Old Man? The one who is tied to us, does he still breathe? Can you tell? Is it possible for anyone to survive a storm like this?”

The Old Man responds as he closes the distance, “Life is a beacon! His journey is almost fulfilled! Things will change. You will see...”

Impatience takes hold, “Say what you mean, Old Man! You give me riddles while men’s lives are at stake. Put it simply. Is the man in the water alive or dead?”

The Old Man’s laughter is rich and out of place within the moment, “Why do you doubt? Those who only see with their eyes are blind!” As odd as the man’s words may be, I understand his meaning. I believe that the man in the water still clings to life. I will see this through to the end.

Waves like mountains tower far above our bow. Ridges of water raise us up to the sky. One hundred tons of steel are tossed to the heavens like a young child’s toy. I grip the sliding rope with both hands. We hang weightless in the balance. The gaping mouth of the ocean opens wide.

The deck rolls. The ship pitches. Gravity disappears. Men are launched from the deck with arms spinning. They make unpracticed attempts as they are suddenly forced to fly. Screams fill the space around me. Descending bones snap upon protruding steel. My stomach bubbles with visceral emotions. Fear is one part. Excitement is another. Envy is the strange brother to them both.

Men fall. Men die. Yet, I am jealous of them. Strangely, I also want to fly.

The ship crashes. The decks groan. Now, ten men remain on the rope. Together, we lean into another long pull. The rope tightens. The Ocean takes.

“Pull!” Men pull as one.

“Pull!” The rope changes weight.

“Pull!” The mighty Ocean relinquishes her hold.

“Pull!” The man escapes the ocean like a freshly drawn catch.

There is a moment in the balance as the man swings high in the air, tied to his string, soaring like a broken gull. The men strain with a last effort. The man in white clears the rail. With the slapping liquid thud of a fresh caught peto, the man stranded in the water clears the rails and kisses the deck. The First Mate of the Demuesquela lays twisted in coiled lengths of rope. Umbilicus and fetus released from its mother, the child lays motionless, grey and absent of breath. Was the extreme effort and loss to save one just a waste of time? Is there still a life to be saved?

Maybe it is the character of men who have spent great time on the open ocean, or maybe it is that I too am stark raving mad. In time you begin to see wind and ocean as having hidden wills of their own. The elements are stronger than small mortal men. Mother had full control of the man in white. Then she let him go and left him for dead. There should be victory dances. Instead the giant storm turns direction and skulks off like a child.

And there it is. There is the beginning. I had a dream of this the other night. I have many dreams that I quickly forget. Forgetting has become an art form, but this one thing remains clear in my head. This is where it began...

I was watching a storm move away and there was a man dressed in white. He was standing next to me talking for a moment. Then he was laying on the deck of this boat. He looked exactly the same, battered and dead. Maybe there is hope here. Maybe there is still life inside of the man. I think about the dream and try to remember what happens next.

Since the night that The Greek ended me nothing has been the same. I see strange things when I am sleeping. I know that I have witnessed what is happening here. At the same time what I remember is incomplete. Like assembling a puzzle where half the pieces have been stolen. Understanding the full picture of what lies before me requires a bit of guess work along the way. Now that the real event is here, I compare the images that I can find: there is the man on deck, the ropes that bind him, the feeling of extreme cold... and the men who talk at my back.

In the dream the men were talking. I can not remember what they said. I listen to the crew. Their words will tell me what I should do next.

Conversation verifies that the crew are still breathing. Free words loosen up a group. Tongues begin to wag. Talk is a fine way to release the tension of the morning. Stress rises in the air like steam. The men laugh and slap each other on the back. The fish is always bigger with the latest telling of the tale.

“Have you ever seen anything like that?” comes a voice from the gathering crowd.

“The storm or the rescue?” inquires a second.

“I think he probably means both,” finishes a third

“There was Jemechia. Two ships went down with her.”

“The storm Jemechia was in 1912?”

“No, earlier than that. She took the seas in 1907.”

“Did you ride her out?” asks a fifth.

“I was on The Andorinha,” responds the fourth.

“That ship cracked like a nut!” inserts a sixth.

“You were there?” inquires the third.

“I was! I was! I rode the Huampas Doral. We found the Andorinha. When we found the ship, the sharks had already eaten half those who survived. We got lucky that day. We managed to pull thirty-three out of that wreck.”

“It was a carton full of corking that kept me afloat,” whispers the forth man. He becomes lost in the past. Words freeze on his lips.

“Too bad you weren’t lucky enough to find the carton full of wine,” one adds. The joke is well taken. The crowd erupts with bright cheer. The face of the fourth man warms. He too joins in on a good laugh.

I smile for a moment. Laughter loosens something inside. There it is now, a glimpse into how things fit. The man said, “Thirty-three.” An image appears in my head.

My mind works overtime comparing the small details looking for something out of place. There are three men around the body: one to the left, two to the right. Ropes coil on the deck like snakes spawning. There is a water stain on the deck like a silhouette of a cow laughing. Luis smokes. Robespier sneezes. Robespier stands next to another man wearing a green hat. The green hatted man stomps and shivers...

A tumbler clicks. Something unlocks.

There’s the answer! The First Mate is out of place.

“Quick! Help me!” I urge the man to my right. I catch the man’s face square in the eye. He is Tierno. I know him well. “Old friend, help me save this man’s life. Hurry we have little time.”

The man hesitates at my urging. A harsher voice I use now, “Get on with it, Tierno! Help me save this man now!” I have sailed with Tierno for a very long time. I have met his family, his children and his wife.

I study the man. There is fear in his eyes. Fear is our enemy. This I address fully and directly, “Do this with me. With this you will grow stronger. The worst is over. This man must survive.”

Tierno says nothing as he drops close and grabs my arm. The movement is swift. I’m too stunned to react. There is a sharp pinch as if something bites me. I look to my friend, wanting to understand.

“What are you doing?” I ask Tierno.

There is a furrow in man’s brow. The man briefly looks me in the eye, “Put him back. The first mate can not survive. If you revive him, all of us will die.”

I try to respond. The world begins to spin. My wrist itches violently. My arm goes numb. The back of my head tingles, and my eye lids grow quite heavy.

Tierno rises. I notice something sparkle in his hand. The hand races into a pocket. Light disappears. Tierno turns into the crowd. His form is quickly swallowed.

I was focused on a purpose. Now, confusion fills my mind. There is a lifeless man before me on the steel metal of this ship. I am soaked through and cold as ice. Grey mist fills the air when I breathe. If I stay like this too long, I know I will die.

The man at my knees is someone whom I know. “Túlio why are you laying on the floor like this? It’s much too cold for you to behave this way. Your wife and sister would be upset if they knew. You show me the pictures and tell me the stories. You should be happy and full of life.”

A hand taps me on the shoulder. It belongs to Demetrius. I ask the man, “What is wrong with Túlio? Why does he lay like a rock?”

The man gives me a quizzical look, “You don’t remember the fight?”

I have a brief image of smashing against a metal wall, but that image is not what the man has implied, “Which fight?”

“He was in the ocean. We fought to bring him back.”

I stare at the man. The world still spins. The tingling in my arm and neck are no longer so pronounced. “He was in the ocean?”

Demetrius stares at me, “Look at your hands. That’s from the rope. Saving our first mate, we lost a bunch of men.”

I stare at my hands, red torn ribbons of flesh. I press hands together. The sharp pain focusses my thoughts. Pain. Pain of the rope sliding through. Two hands ripped and red. We fought with the ocean. Now we have our prize. I look up to Demetrius. “Help me save this man’s life.”

The man smiles back.

I look to the still body. The last bit of tingling disappears. Whatever Tierno did to me seems to have run its course. There is a picture in my head. Something clicks into place. Once again, I am back on task, “Quick, help me. I need to move this man. Please, don’t question. Just do.”

The First Mate’s body we turn with feet facing north. We pull the body across the deck so that he is one meter from the man who stomps his two feet. I know that the motion is strange, but things on the deck must match the picture in my head.

I roll The First Mate over on his side. Steadily, I slap the back of the motionless man. He only lays there still, blue, and rigid as ice. This man needs breath and I have plenty to spare. Touching lips with a dead man seems to me as briny and uncertain as kissing an eel.

I blow in the first time. Water flushes out the man’s nose. Like a whale breaching and clearing water squirts high into the air. I pinch his nose shut and with a deep breath fill the man’s lungs with warm air. The man’s chest inflates. It rises like a mountain just above his belt.

I press down on the chest. Air makes a light swooshing sound. There is a bubbling of clear liquid around the man’s nose and lips. This is followed by a gurgling inside of the man like a boiler when it just begins to heat. I expect more, but nothing else changes. I seal the nose again and push more air into the man’s mouth.

Hand on the chest, I press the air out. I will teach this man to breathe once again if that is what needs to take place. A steady rhythm develops of air in and air out. I continue until my shoulders stiffen up like two stones.

The man mocks me by laying still. He is colder and bluer than he was before. “You’re not dead!” I yell to the still form laying at my feet, “You don’t die like this you stupid git! It is not your time!” I slap the blue man. This makes me feel strangely ashamed.

There is a response to this action. The cold man violently comes to life. There is spitting and spluttering stronger than a diesel engine when it first catches fire. Water is expelled. Blood begins to flow. A rose pink fills the man’s ghost white skin.

The doctor appears with blankets in his hands. The man ushers orders as I quickly step to the side. The First Mate is gathered. Men form up to the side. The body is lifted upon a stretcher and carried to a much warmer place.

The Old Man appears behind me. He shakes with a deep laugh that is contagious and loud. The crew rumbles. A sigh of relief slowly spreads. The Old Man turns and smiles at me. A thousand cracks crease his ancient face. “Brave day, my lad! The twig has grown some fruit!” The man slaps me on the shoulder with more force than I would expect. The slap to my back almost pushes me over the rail.

The men are in full form now. Darkness has been overcome. There are a thousand ways to die out here at sea. Laughter is not always so close. I sit in the corner motionless as the men joke and laugh. Raw emotions and physical exhaustion leave me feeling completely spent. I stare across the wide ocean. The long rise and fall of the deck gives way to a moderate chop. The clouds, once so angry, dispersed like small white cows grazing in a field. The sun emerges and fills the afternoon sky. The wind is still cold but no longer cuts with a sharp edge. I grab my coat a bit tighter and think about changing into dry clothes.

“Ho!” cries a man at the stern of the ship. Damesquela waddles a bit as her course changes. She lurches slightly as the engines shift. The storm did her job well. She shook men from Damesquela’s deck. We will retrieve them. We will pull in as many as we can.

The search is long. The sailors work with commitment. The sun sinks low. The light begins to dim. The Captain finally calls a halt. Nineteen went over and thirteen have been found. Eight are still breathing. We will remember those that we have lost.

There is a will here. The day has taught me that. It is larger than an army of men. It is something that I can not understand. Men put names on these things like fate and destiny. The name is just a mask for the things that they do not understand.

The world grew dark as pitch when the storm set upon us. In the midst of the battle I looked to the left. It was an immense surprise to find a crack in that blackness, a place where the clouds had parted and the sun had shown through. It felt like being caught between two worlds: black madness contrasted against shimmering gold. I could imagine two different children drawing on the same piece of paper. Two completely different pictures emerge, following the whimsy of two emerging wills. Gods are on both ends and no compromise exists in the middle. Mankind, who is too small to be noticed, is forced to survive in between.

Difficult choices are coming. Too many things tell me this is so. I don’t understand all but some things I have figured. The Old Man helps me, directing me towards things I had never considered to consider. He is helping me put together pieces both undiscovered and lost.