Fear has taken a hold of every man aboard this ship, as it should; our luck is as far gone as the winds that led us off course. For nights and days gusts beyond measure have forced us south, yet our vessel beauty, Le Serpent, stays afloat. The souls aboard her, lay at the mercy of this ruthless sea. Chaotic weather has turned the crew from noble seamen searching for glory and riches, to whimpering children. To stay sane I keep the holy trinity close to my heart and the lady on my mind. Desperation comes and goes from the men’s eyes, while the black, blistering clouds fasten above us, as endless as the ocean itself. The sea rocks our wood hull back and forth but has yet to flip her. The rocking forces our bodies to cling to any sturdy or available hinge, nook or rope, anything a man can grasp with a sea soaked hand. The impacts make every step a danger. We all have taken on a ghoulish complexion; the absence of sunlight led the weak souls aboard to fight sleep until sick. Some of us pray for the sun to rise but thunder constantly deafens our cries as it crackles above the mast. We have been out to sea for fifty-five days and we have been in this forsaken storm for the last seventeen.
Some nights ago while most of the crew was resetting a sail, broken by the winds, some fat swine got into the food storage. The fool, drunk off his ass, passed out on the wheat supply where he puked and laid piss over one of the last three barrels of wheat. If there were no order the man would have been sent to Davy Jones' Locker. Despite the crew's desire for blood, the captain had a firm grip on the mates. He gave the Italian responsible the shitty job of cleaning the head.
The captain then calmed nerves as he reassured us we were days within land. In his final commanding hours the captain was insistent on moving forward and he felt in his gut we were close, but the damn storm prevented us from seeing anything.
That was then. With the captain now dead, gone is all order along with any hope of ever making landfall.
A total of seven men have been lost to the sea. Only one deserves mention, our captain. His reputation was more glorious than his persona, but his final salute to the sea is worthy of note. In good memory of the man we recorded his last words as, “Continue the search!” The honest truth is that the captain was well above his usual order in his final minutes.
I was the watchman that night; I saw him. Leaning over the bow howling to the darkness, the pouring rain muffled his drunk furry, and before I could coax the captain to the helm, a wave of the blackest sea water I’d ever seen crashed over the decks washing the man to his backside, as desperate as a fish out of water, but with a little more grace he took hold of a nearby rope, and for the sake of his life regained balance. Holding onto the rope with one hand, the captain fixed his long wet hair from his face and secured it back...