Stefán Máni - The Ship

Will he die alone and unloved, without any help, sympathy or soft hands to stroke?

The ship takes a deep dive, rolls over to port and slams into a rising wave. The wind howls and the ship shudders from end to end; the full shot glass jumps and overturns so cognac flows over the cards, off the table and onto the rug.

‘Fuck it!’ says the captain, jumping to his feet. He collects the wet cards, rights the shot glass, throws the flask on the couch and strides to the window.

Outside the dark is churning, circling in on itself, tearing up the sea, screeching like a banshee and shooting lightning in all directions. The storm is just about to slam into the ship, which is moving so slowly in relation to the wind and the waves that it seems to be bobbing in one place like a rubber duck in a bathtub.

‘Holy Mary…’ Guðmundur crosses himself in the face of the indomitable power of nature.

The crests of the waves are everywhere, whipped into white foam that grows ever greyer as the light fades.

‘…Mother of God.’ The captain takes a deep breath. Then he stiffens as something heavy and wet slams into the closed window.

Some brown and leathery creature with eight tentacles and a large head.

‘Have mercy on us!’ cries the captain as he watches the creature on the window with revulsion.

A large octopus is glued to the glass and staring at the captain with a dead eye.

The bridge

Sæli is standing at the starboard window, helplessly watching the chaotic storm as it comes careering out of the west, black as the smoke from burning oil. Sæli is not authorised to pilot a ship, and even though he thinks he probably could disconnect the autopilot and sail the ship out of the storm, he is not allowed to touch the controls.

What should he do?

The waves are getting higher and higher, the sea rougher and darker; heavy gusts of wind are slamming against the ship like invisible punches; wood and metal are grinding and grating; the daylight is fading, the ship is dancing with death and the view is distorted by the foaming sea as it buffets the windows.

‘What is going on here?’ asks Guðmundur, slamming the door behind him as he enters the bridge. Steadying himself against walls and tables, he makes his way past the map room and into the middle. ‘Where’s Methúsalem?’

‘Methúsalem?’ echoes Sæli, looking at the most senior officer with a mixture of fear and relief. He’s afraid because he’s part of a secret mutiny, but relieved at the same time because someone has come up to the bridge to take command of the ship.

‘I told him to sail east! There’s a gale coming up, even a hurricane, twelve on the scale.’ Guðmundur sits in the captain’s chair. ‘Where is the man?’

‘He… He…’ Sæli clears his throat so hard he starts coughing.

‘What’s the matter with you, boy?’ says Guðmundur, studying him carefully. Sæli is as pale as a ghost and clearly in some sort of state: his hands are shaking, his eyes are wide and shiny, and if the dark stain on the front of his trousers is anything to go by, he’s wet himself.

What the hell is going on?

‘ Where is Methúsalem Sigurðsson? ’ asks Guðmundur loudly as he disconnects the autopilot and grabs the helm.

The captain doesn’t have to wait for the seaman’s answer, though, because as soon as he looks out the window the facts are evident.

Down on the port side of the weather deck, four men are walking forwards along the ship in single file. They are halfway along, fifty metres behind them, fifty metres to go. At the front is the new deckhand with Methúsalem behind him; next is Rúnar with Big John at the rear. And all of them are armed, except the man in front, who has his arms raised and his hands behind his head. Rúnar is carrying a long chain on his left shoulder and John has a five-litre water container in his right hand. They’re stumbling as the ship twists but making their way forward, step by step, their knees and backs bent, their bodies beaten by wind, rain and spray.

‘What is going on?’ shouts Guðmundur, staring out the window as if he can’t believe his eyes. ‘What are the men up to? Are they armed?’

‘They’re going to shut him in the forecastle,’ says Sæli.

Disobedience! Defiance! Mutiny!

‘I don’t believe this!’ Guðmundur screams as he reconnects the autopilot. Then he jumps down from the chair and strides into the chart room, where he rolls up the charts that are on the table.

Just as well these mutineers didn’t get hold of the charts!

‘Where are you going?’ asks Sæli, holding on with both hands as the ship takes a deep dive.

‘You’re staying here, boy, and doing nothing and touching nothing!’ Guðmundur says forcefully as he opens the door to the corridor with his left hand, clutching the rolled-up charts to his chest with his right. ‘DO YOU HEAR ME, YOU IDIOT?’

‘But the storm…’ says Sæli with tears in his eyes.

Guðmundur, red faced, gives the young man a disdainful look but says nothing. Then he steps over the threshold and slams the door behind him.

Weather deck

The forecastle door is shut. It’s a waterproof metal door with three hasps. It’s painted red, as is all of the front of the forecastle, and painted on it in white letters is the English name for this space: FORECASTLE.

‘You open it!’ shouts Methúsalem, poking his rifle into the back of Jón Karl, who stands with his feet apart in front of the locked door.

The bow of a freighter is usually covered and that space is called the forecastle. The forecastle is a closed, separate space, but is considered the forward part of the A-deck or upper deck and is usually a storeroom of some kind. From there you can walk down to the bow thruster area. Down there you will also find boxes for the heavy anchor chains as well as the forepeak tank, which is a ballast tank.

The weather is now making it extremely dangerous to be above deck – sheer foolhardiness if not utter madness. The four men slide back and forth, lose their balance, get blown over and slam against whatever’s near them, lean every which way and hold onto anything they can possibly hold onto. They are either being thrown to the cold, wet deck or swinging loose several centimetres above it, since the ship is either falling through a vacuum into the trough of a wave or shooting like a rocket into the sky.

Satan leans forward at forty-five degrees with his left hand against the forecastle wall and loosens the hasps on the door with his right hand. The door is the same kind as the one that opens into the darkness of the hold, but the locks aren’t as stiff and Satan manages, with some effort, to open them one handed. As the third and last hasp comes loose the bow lifts right into the air, as if the ship is going to sail into the clouds. The forecastle door swings wide open and the heavy door throws Satan like a doll against Methúsalem; they both lose their footing and slam against the foremost hatch, which is high enough so they don’t tumble all the way to the wheelhouse and get washed overboard.

Big John manages to hook the middle finger of his left hand in a metal loop on the front of the forecastle, while the fingers of his right hand lock themselves round Rúnar’s left arm. Then they both dangle in thin air over the deck until the ship rights itself.

‘Everyone inside!’ calls Methúsalem the minute the ship reaches a pitch fairly near the horizontal.

Icy seawater floods across the deck from starboard to port. Satan and Methúsalem scramble to their feet and run inside the forecastle; Big John frees his middle finger from the metal loop and pulls Rúnar to his feet. Then they support each other to the forecastle door, climb over the high threshold and disappear into the gloom.