Stephen Dixon - Frog

Sleeping. Top bunk of a double- or triple-decker. Weren’t that many men aboard, so maybe they all had single bunks, two or three to a cabin. Dreaming he’s back home, having coffee in the kitchen with his mother, when three men run in with tommyguns and start shooting at the ceiling. His younger brother and sister are in the bedroom right above. Blood pours through the holes the bullets made. He lunges at the men when they aim the guns at his mother. Alarm clock goes off in the upstairs bedroom. To wake the kids for school. Ship alarm. He wakes up, says “Huh, what’s wrong?” “Emergency, man,” his bunkmate says in English or Spanish. “Big one. Only goes off like that when it’s the most serious. All-hands-on-deck kind of thing, ship going down, could be. Hurry.” Can’t be as bad as the guy’s saying. Where are his shoes? Gets his sweater and pants from the end of his bunk. Socks are in his shoes. Lights go on and off, alarm continues, men running past their cabin, someone throws open the door and shouts “Out, up.” Suddenly the ship’s being shoved back and forth. Way it’s been for days, but side to side while now if s fore to aft, motion he’s never heard of on so large a ship. “My damn shoes, where are they?” “Forget them, man. We could be sinking this minute,” and runs out, clothes and vest on. Alex gets two pairs of socks out of his locker and pockets them, vest off the wall, last look under and around his bunk, runs to the stairs putting the vest on. On deck everyone’s dressed for very cold weather and rain. “Ship’s being abandoned,” the first officer says. “We caught something, no time to find out what it is. Nobody fret. We’re still radioing and we’ve time to lower boats and get extra provisions and equipment in.” Alex says “TO freeze without shoes. I’m freezing now.” His feet are in an inch of water. “Anyone have extra shoes for this man?” the officer says. Shaking of heads, some say no, wish they did, sorry. “I’ll be right back,” Alex says. I’m sure I’ll find them this time, or someone’s.” Runs to the stairs. “Come on back,” someone shouts. “You’ll hold us all up.” Has to hold on tight to get below, brace his hands against the corridor walls as he runs to his cabin. Two to three inches of water already. Shoes are on the unused bunk above his. Doesn’t remember putting them there. Someone must have while he slept. Or he did just before he fell asleep exhausted, though he doesn’t know why he’d do it. Grabs them. Also another sweater and a watch cap out of his locker. Starts for the stairs. His manuscripts. Hell with them. If any are worth it he’ll remember them and rewrite them. Water pours down the stairs. Crunching sound from the deck below his. Ship tips straight up and he falls on his back. Tries crawling upstairs. Ship’s righted somewhat, then tips up again. He’s thrown downstairs, thinks he hurt badly or broke a leg. Can’t stand on it. Ship’s also shaking too much. Then vibrating, and a few places in the walls crack. Shoes are gone. Sweater and cap he held on to without knowing it and lets them float away. Lights have gone but he can see the hatchway hole as they may be shooting off flares up there. Enough water below now to swim in. He tries to get to the stairs. Lots of pain but screw it, he’s able to swim if he digs in hard and doesn’t kick. Orders from above, shouting, constant stack blasts, crunching noises from the sides now too. Ship seems to be rolling over, then tips up but from the other end, dropping him by the stairs. Water’s up to the middle steps. He grabs the stair rail, tries pulling himself upstairs, is thrown against the wall, head banging it so hard he’s knocked out. He awakes underwater, at the other end of the corridor, water in his lungs, spits out a mouthful, tries to swim, can’t, cough up water, can’t. Can hardly breathe it seems. Tries, takes in a little water stuck in his nose. Corridor wall rips open and he’s sucked out.

Eating dinner with Len, the captain. A good wine. Better food by far than they get from the galley. Len cooked it on a hot plate. He offers Alex a black cigar. “No thanks.” “Havanas. You soon won’t see these in America anymore.” “Ah, why not? You mind if I don’t smoke it but give it to my dad when I get home?” “You bet. Anything for your old man. He took care of my teeth when I was a kid, you know. Maybe why I have so few, but that’s all right.” Holds up his glass. Alex holds up his. “To my precious wife and kids in Cuba and six teeth, at last count, I didn’t have to pay for,” and they drink. “To my parents and sister and — oh, I don’t know how to toast,” Alex says, when the intercom buzzes. “Yes? Holy shit,” and some nautical terms, sounding like instructions. Tells Alex to quickly get his warmest clothes on, several pairs of socks, cap that fits over his ears, gloves if he has. “Ship might be sinking. Don’t worry. We’ve plenty of time to get into the boats if we have to, and I got to get you back alive and well or I’ll never hear the end of it from my old man.” Alex runs to his cabin. Bells sounding. Gets his coat, sweater, hat, socks, scarf, fountain pen, ballpoint pens, memobook, sticks what he thinks are his best new manuscripts inside his shirt, picks up his typewriter in its case and wonders if he should try to take it. For the trip he borrowed Howard’s portable in exchange for his standard. “Hustle,” someone says. “Worse than they thought. Forget all that crap. Just the sweater and cap. Len sent me down to get you in one minute.” Entire crew’s upstairs. Len says to them “Unbelievable as this is to believe, believe it: the ship’s splitting apart. For real. Right down the middle. We didn’t hit anything nor I think do anything that wicked or impious on this crossing to whip up the cussedness of the gods. It happens to about one transoceanic ship a year and we seem to be this year’s catch. But our boats are in good order, sturdily built and well stocked right down to the prescriptive quart per man of hundred-proof rum. We’ll get ten in one, eight in another, five plus oversize me in the smallest. Well stay close together but not that close to risk ramming one another. Each boat’s equipped with an emergency distress signal,” or whatever it’s called. “Because of the signals we’re still putting out and the heavy traffic of this sea lane, I’m reasonably cheerful a ship, even if we haven’t pinpointed our location”—or whatever’s the expression—“in two days, will pick us up in ten to twelve hours. So hold out, don’t start cannibalizing or throwing one another overboard just yet. If we survive the killer wind, rain and cold that’s in store for us out there, well have come through something almost unheard of, whatever good that’ll do us. Good luck. I love you all and loved sailing with you. Alex, you come with me,” and they get in the boats and lower them or lower them and get in, Alex’s last. His is overturned a few minutes after it’s in the water. He tries reaching the boat but the waves keep moving it farther away, or him away from it. Water so cold he can hardly use his limbs a minute into it. “Over here,” he yells. “Save me, please get me, it’s Alex,” just as others are yelling to be saved; most in Spanish. “Where are you, we can’t see you, keep yelling so we can find you,” other men yell to them, most in Spanish. Then so numb he can’t do anything to keep himself up or yell he’s there, and sinks. Held his breath and tries getting his head out of the water, but nothing he does pushes it through. His breath breaks, water rushes into his nose and mouth, spits our some, more than what he spit comes in, tries kicking and flapping to get above water, chokes, gags, retches.

Assisting the cook with the ship’s supper when the ship jolts, then an explosion. Alarms, bells, the cook says “They say ‘Emergency, straight to deck, no stopping in your cabin.’” He’s assigned to one of the boats. It’s lowered and breaks apart when it hits the water. Or they can’t lower it. They cut lines, clip chains, boat still won’t lower. Or the boat’s in the water and he tries climbing down to it but falls into the water. Or dives in to reach another boat, since none’s left on ship, and water’s so cold his heart stops, or he has a cardiac arrest or shock, or whatever happens in a heart failure or attack, when he hits the water. Or water so cold he can’t come up from the dive. Paralyzes him and he just sinks. Or he’s underwater, swimming up. Holds his breath long as he can, but he dove too deep and his mouth bursts.