Stating: The act of one who states anything; statement as the stating of one’s opinions.

Siver: To simmer

Jackstay: A rail of wood or iron stretching along a yard of a vessel to which the sails are fashioned.

—

The Captain’s voice ripped through a momentary silence.

‘Goddamn it Emile! You wanna get washed overboard? I said: “attach yourself to the god damn jackstay!”

Emile, his head still lingering over the portside railing, nodded mutely, then staggered suddenly to one side as another wave hit the small schooner.

The iron wire of the jackstay stretched tautly from stern to bow, never moving or flexing, simply strung like a fossilised washing line. With a webbing harness in his right hand, Emile fought his way across deck, stopping after every step, legs splayed awkwardly as he tried to keep himself upright. He felt like a penguin waddling on ice. The white cresting spray of successive waves snapped at his heels like a Leopard Seal.

“Emile! Goddamn it, if you don’t hook that god damn harness onto that god damn jackstay, I’ll throw you overboard myself!”

Ignoring the Captain and with hook outstretched, Emile half jumped, half fell into the metallic embrace of the jackstay. The satisfying click of the hook locking was a like a hit of opium.

The next wave swept Emile’s feet away from under him; torrents of icy water trying to suck him from the deck, as though swallowing him like an oyster. Emile was left dangling from the jackstay, helpless as the wave washed through the boat. For a moment he felt as if he were flying, but if that were so then why couldn’t he breathe?

A gargled scream; red hot, burning lungs; desperate gulps of air; a punctured aching pleasure. Salty rivulets ran down his face, scratchy like cactus prickles as they were whipped away by the wind. Soaked through, Emile felt probing, icy fingers wrap around and wring the life from every bone. Each breath ragged and painful, his lungs having shrunk back in fear like a snail’s eye.
Emile lay on the deck alongside the numerous fish that hadn’t been lucky enough to be swept back out to sea. Both still, both just about struggling for breath, both slowly fading into darkness.

A probing toe to the ribs slowly brought Emile around. His eyes flickered open and were greeted by a vivid blue sky, empty of clouds as though some celestial plug had been pulled. A shadow fell over his face accompanied by the fishy smell of the Captain.

‘Thought we’d lost you for a minute there,’ he said brusquely, anger being allowed to siver behind a momentary lapse of sentiment. ‘Excuse me if I’m stating the bleeding obvious though, but just what the hell were you doing on the other side of the god damn boat? In the middle of a god damn storm? Without being clipped to the god damn jackstay? Explain that to me Sailor!’

The Captain’s harsh stress on the word ‘sailor’, implied it to be a condescending insult. Emile took it as a compliment. He’d simply been a deckhand before, nothing more, nothing less. He coughed, wincing with pain. His lungs a pair of crushed Coke cans.

‘I thought I saw something…someone in the water.’

The Captain scrutinised the young man, splashed on the deck like bird poo. He pursed his lips and made a thoughtful sucking sound.

‘You and your god damn mermaids…’ he said, tutting with disapproval.