Stefán Máni - The Ship

‘Any final questions?’ The captain gives each of the men a serious look.

Silence.

‘Then this meeting is over.’ The captain stands up from the table. ‘Sæli, you have the bridge watch until midnight.’

16:27

In the galley Ási, Big John and Rúnar have a quick discussion before the latter two leave for their cabins, as the captain instructed.

‘The Old Man has never been like this before,’ grumbles Rúnar, taking a sip of fresh coffee. ‘I hardly dared open my mouth for fear of having my wages cut, or worse!’

‘You get to go up to the bridge, though,’ says Big John, spitting out a bit of tobacco. ‘I’m the next to top officer on board and I’m forbidden access to the bridge!’

‘He has his reasons,’ says Ási softly as he puts out applecake and doughnuts. ‘He’s always been a flexible and just man, has Gummi. Maybe he’s been too lenient with us through the years. I mean, he’s always stood by us, listened to our bullshit and let us get away with various antics, and how have we repaid him?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Big John sighs. ‘But we weren’t the ones who cut the wires on the roof, and it wasn’t our idea to destroy the engine. All we did was shut some idiot in the forecastle. That’s all!’

‘We were going to kill the engine,’ says Rúnar and shrugs. ‘That was a fucking stupid idea, now I think about it.’

‘Yeah, but we had also decided not to,’ Big John says, lighting his half-smoked cigar.

‘After the old man disarmed us!’ says Rúnar with a soft laugh.

‘You guys should never have smuggled those guns on board,’ Ási says, shaking his head. ‘I could have told you no good would come of it.’

‘Yeah,’ mutters Big John and he exhales sour cigar smoke. ‘We should have asked your advice, Ási, lad, instead of listening to Methúsalem’s nonsense!’

‘Methúsalem,’ Rúnar says and sips his coffee. ‘There’s something not quite right with Methúsalem.’

‘Do you think he…?’ Ási looks questioningly at his comrade.

‘I don’t know,’ says John. ‘But I can’t understand how we—’

Boom!

The ship slams sideways into a rising wave. The blow is unexpected and heavy and the three men are thrown about in the galley and fall onto each other, as hot coffee, baked goods, milk, cigar ash, embers and sugar are strewn all over the floor.

16:30

Guðmundur Berndsen grabs the table in the chart room when the ship slams into the wave and holds on tight while the bridge shakes like a skyscraper in an earthquake. The weather deck fills with seawater and the windows on the starboard side are about to kiss the dark-grey sea, but then the ship’s hull rights itself, about halfway.

‘Sæli!’ calls the captain when the worst is over. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ Sæli replies, sitting up on the floor and blinking his eyes. He had been spun around in the captain’s chair, thrown out of it, flipped over on the floor and left with his head in the doorway to the starboard bridge wing.

‘I think we’d better forget about sitting in chairs while the weather stays this bad,’ says Guðmundur, releasing his grip on the chart table. ‘It’s actually insane to be up here at all, but we have no choice. Here we can keep track of other ships and send a signal light or shoot up a flare.’

‘I know,’ says Sæli. He positions himself on the port side of the bridge. He stands by the window with his legs spread wide, holding with both hands onto the copper rail that runs the length of the windowsill.

On the floor of the chart room lie the mattress from the captain’s bunk, his doona and a pillow. Guðmundur had piled all this up and lugged it up to the bridge, where he tied the mattress to the cupboards in the chart room.

This is where he’s going to sleep for the remainder of this voyage.

‘If it’s all the same to you, I’m going below to get a few more things,’ says the captain. He still has to get his charts, sextant and calculator.

And the shotgun.

‘Fine by me,’ says Sæli without looking back over his shoulder.

20:39

Ási is in the galley, almost finished clearing away after supper. Conditions on board don’t encourage much in the way of fancy cooking, so he just threw some pork chops in a pot, browned them in the oven and served them with thick mashed potatoes. No gravy, no caramelised potatoes, no peas, no red cabbage and no fuss.

Nobody complained, though – the men have other things to think about, and it’s hard enough to eat simple meat at a forty-degree tilt without having to wrestle with caramelised potatoes, peas and thick, creamy gravy as well.

Even Jónas contented himself with flat-tasting tomato soup, despite the fact he’d hardly had anything to eat for two days. But while he’s running a high fever and on morphine, liquids and a minimum of nourishment is all the second mate’s getting. That’s by order of the captain, who’s responsible for the health and safety of each and every man on board as long as the ship is afloat.

‘My good old lads!’ says Ási with a sigh, chewing a toothpick as he turns on the dishwasher. While the main engine is out of commission and thus the dynamo also, the generator is working on full power to ensure there’s no shortage of electricity for cooking, freezing and washing.

Ási wipes the work surface in the galley with a damp cloth, turns off the coffee machine and locks the fridge before he turns off the light and closes the door to the galley behind him.

‘How are things with you, friend?’ asks Ási as he enters the sick bay.

‘Just… the same,’ mumbles Jónas and he tries to lick his dry lips. He is both sweaty and pale, and he lies absolutely still under a thin doona, a collar around his neck, his left foot in a pressure bandage raised on two pillows and his left arm in a sling across his stomach.

‘Do you need anything for the night?’ Ási moves the toothpick from the left side of his mouth to the right.

‘I need to piss.’

‘Of course,’ says Ási and hands him the urine bottle. ‘Can I help you with it?’

‘No, no… I can manage,’ Jónas says, but he struggles a bit with the flask under the doona.

‘Storm’s dying down.’

‘Yeah…’ says Jónas, grimacing.

‘Shouldn’t I pour you some water?’ says Ási, pouring water from a pitcher into a glass on the bedside table.

‘Yeah… thanks.’ Jónas sighs with relief when his urine starts to trickle into the flask.

‘Good man,’ says Ási. He stands on tiptoe. ‘Should I give you a shot for the night?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ says Jónas, rolling his eyes. ‘It gives me such a lot of nightmares. Just leave the pain pills by me.’

‘Of course.’ Ási fetches two sheets of paracetamol-codeine and puts them on the bedside table. ‘Have you finished down below, pal?’

‘Yeah… I think so.’ Jónas pushes slightly, then he moves something under the doona before he hands Ási the half-full flask. ‘Here you go.’

‘Thanks, pal,’ says Ási. He examines the dark-yellow liquid before he pours it into the sink and rinses the flask.

‘Thanks,’ mumbles Jónas and closes his eyes.

‘No sweat,’ says Ási, turning off the light as he opens the door to the corridor. ‘Goodnight, pal.’

‘Ási!’ says Jónas, opening his eyes and rising up on his right elbow.