We Float Upon a Painted Sea

Bull scanned the horizon for land or passing ships. It was raining heavily and the sky and the sea were interchangeable shades of grey. He yearned for a visual stimulus. Yellow or green, even brown. Shades of the land. Anything but grey, he thought. His heart fluttered with excitement when the sun broke through the blanket of cloud, its rays catching the suspended droplets of rain, to form a rainbow. His eyes feasted on the optical ambrosia. He savoured every colour of the light spectrum. He wanted to share the experience with Andrew, if only to break the monotony of the day, but the dark mantle returned to spoil the display.

Keeping watch was mind numbing, thought Bull. Without the necessary means to react, it was a distraction from more pressing issues, such as dreaming about the past or dealing with his rampaging hunger pangs and nicotine cravings. If land was sighted, they had no paddles to row ashore. They had flares if a ship was spotted, but would they work? Bull abandoned his watch and sat fidgeting in his garments. The fabric of his homemade sarong was making his skin itch. The underside of his legs felt tender to the touch. Tiny blisters bubbled on his bleached white skin. Andrew disturbed his thoughts when passing him the hand-inflator. Bull said,

“We’ve been floating for miles. Where the hell are we going?” Andrew looked up from his fishing lure, viewing Bull with a disparaging eye. He scratched his beard and said,

“Wherever the wind and current take us. Hopefully we will drift into a shipping lane or land. I’m guessing we have drifted sixty or so miles in a westerly direction.”

“How did you arrive at that figure?”

“I did say it was a guess, but earlier, when you were sleeping, I watched the sunrise in the east, giving me a bearing. Later on, when you were sleeping again, I counted the seconds for us to drift, and using a buoy as a marker I calculated our average speed. I also made a sextant from three pencils, which I found in Mrs Formby’s luggage. I gauged the maximum height of the sun at midday, when you were still sleeping, and then I used my wristwatch and the position of the sun to calculate our latitude.”

“I’m picking up on a recurring theme here.”

“What recurring theme?”

“That you have a problem with me catching a few hours sleep.”

“You’re sleeping for the best portion of the day my friend.”

“It keeps my mind off the hunger.”

“While you’re getting your beauty sleep, I’m bailing water, inflating the pontoons, keeping watch and changing Malcolm’s bandages.” Andrew held up his homemade sextant, “I also made this device to help answer your relentless questions about where we are.”

“Let me ask you this Sherlock. What’s the point of making a sextant to find our latitude when we have no map to reference it with? You’re just as much in the dark as I am.”

“Admittedly there’s a lot of guesstimates, but at least I’m doing something positive in an effort to get rescued. You can’t expect to sleep and merely wake from this nightmare.”

“What buoy did you see? How close?”

“It was a weather buoy I think. We nearly collided with it. What point are you making?”

“Well Sherlock, if it was a transmitting buoy, all we needed to do was board it and disable the satellite communicator. Eventually a drone would be sent out to fix it. We could have established contact. You didn’t think of that did you?” Andrew’s face flushed with anger. He made a noise between a squeal and a laugh. Folding his arms tightly, he said,

“Where were you at the time with this little gem of information? What were you doing? Sleeping! You’ve been sleeping on and off all day. Sleep will not help our plight.”

“You could have woken me? Just don’t wake me to listen to one of your pointless stories.”

Irascibly, Andrew passed Bull a slice of Bannock cake and a dried prune. Bull sniffed the air.

“The stink in here is getting worse and don’t blame it all on Malcolm. He’s turning into your blame dog,” he said. Andrew sighed,

“The only dog in here is you. It is Malcolm. His wound has festered. I can’t stop the bleeding without a means to stitch it. There’s a constant trickle of blood flowing down his back and collecting in this stagnant pond at our feet. We need to get him proper medical attention or he’s going to die. This makes getting rescued, sooner rather than later, even more critical. We are at the mercy of the current and the wind. Malcolm’s fate is in God’s hands now.” Bull nibbled on his prune and then said,

“What has God got to do with our predicament?”

“You do believe in God, don’t you?”

“What I believe in is none of your concern, but just because we are faced with a set of extraneous variables, doesn’t mean our fate is predetermined.”

“Well, you may not believe in predestination, but we are no longer masters of our own destiny.”

“If I found a piece of wood and carved it to make a paddle, destiny would be our own.”

“I’m going to sleep. Wake me if you spot anything.”

Andrew woke to the sound of excited noises. Thinking Bull had spotted a ship, he got to his knees and fumbled for the flares. He stopped when Bull brought a log into the raft.

“Give me your multi-tool,” demanded Bull, “I’m going to carve this wood into a paddle.” Andrew stopped himself from strangling Bull’s idea before it had time to breath. He was about to say, he was wasting valuable energy and would blunt the blade on his multi-tool, but he decided the task would focus Bull’s mind. Even fruitless tasks were essential for morale in survival situations.

In the evening Andrew cast his fishing line into the ocean, retrieving it by reeling the nylon line onto an empty plastic water bottle. He could see fish swimming under the raft, using it as shelter. If only I could catch one, he thought. After an hour he gave up and retreated back inside. He stretched out his legs. He wished for a book to read, a crossword puzzle or even a pack of playing cards. Anything to pass the time. He allowed his mind to drift and he contemplated his life before his separation from his wife. He dwelt on the times he had spent playing with his children and his long walks over the Southern Upland hills, near his home in the Scottish Borders. This was a place where he had always felt free and unshackled from the pressures of life He yearned to be back there. He watched Bull carving his paddle. The wood shavings drifted like a flotilla of tiny boats on the pond of stagnant water collecting in the middle of the life raft. Andrew closed his eyes and slept. When he woke Bull was grabbing his leg. Bull mumbled,

“We hit something or something hit us,” said Bull brandishing the blade from the multi-tool.

“Hit what? Land? A ship?” exclaimed Andrew, creeping towards the aperture. Only the pewter sea greeted him. A sudden jolt came from under the raft and then another. Andrew froze, gripped by a fear he hadn’t experienced since jumping from the floundering Andrea Starlight. He peeled his eyes from the sea and turned to face a catatonic Bull. They listened attentively for what seemed an age. Nothing except the unnerving pulse of the sea beating against the raft. And then the calm was extinguished by two abrupt attacks. A multitude of thumps. They began to spin. Visible through the orange canopy was the silhouette of a fin circling. Andrew felt the blood drain from his head. He held out a trembling finger and said, “There, to the starboard side…”

“What do you mean, starboard side,” replied Bull nervously. His eyes were still fixed to the floor, “When did we acquire a starboard side?” Andrew ignored his question and crawled to the aperture. When he returned his ashen face hung heavy on his skull. He said,

“There’s something circling us. It’s large. Look, it’s portside now!”

“Sorry Sherlock, all these sides look the same to me?

“I meant to your left. You know, Port left, Starboard right?” Andrew shoved his head out the aperture. Bull appeared to be talking to his buttocks. He said,

“How can a hexagonal shaped raft have port and starboard sides?”

“Perhaps we could have a debate on nautical terms another...” Andrew’s last words were prematurely strangled. The raft was briefly lifted from the sea. A protruding figure appeared in the centre of the synthetic floor, scattering the puddle of stagnant water to the six corners of the raft. There was a flurry of activity. Legs recoiled in fear. Bodies jostled to find an escape route from the malicious shape. Their limbs became entangled. Bull fell on the open suitcase. He held the multi-tool at arms length, like a dagger to protect himself. The shape disappeared. Malcolm lay face down, slumped on the floor. Bull repositioned him against a pontoon. Without warning, the raft was propelled across the surface of the sea. Bull fell forward and tumbled towards the aperture. If Andrew hadn’t grabbed his ankle, he would have been cast into the sea. Still now, his head was under water. Bull opened his eyes. There, in the murky waters, blurred shapes moved towards him. His body was possessed by an involuntary spasm of fear. His legs kicked out. His foot caught Andrew square on the jaw, knocking him backwards. Bull stabbed at the oncoming shape. He missed. The blade plunged into one of the pontoons. Bull kept stabbing until he felt his body being dragged back into the raft. A horrible hissing sound came forth from under them.

“What the hell?” Shouted Andrew. Bull’s voice crackled with fear. He wiped his face with the bath towel he had found in the suitcase and cried,

“I saw a shape in the water. It came at me. I think I stabbed it.” Andrew’s eyes bored into Bull’s head, his finger stabbing at the deflating pontoon. He howled,

“Look what you’ve done you idiot. You stabbed the raft, not the…” A thrashing noise. The sound of churning water. Andrew thrust his head outside the aperture. His breath checked at the sight of a dorsal fin skimming across the surface of the ocean. From underneath the raft, water boiled with escaping air. He turned to Bull and said tempestuously, “You need to reach down under the raft and fix the hole. The pontoon is losing air. We are going to sink.” Bull was startled by Andrew’s change of tone.

“Reach down with what?” he said.

“Your arm!” cried Andrew. Bull emitted a manic laugh,

“Not on your life,” he exclaimed, “You stick your hand in the water. I need my hand. I’ve become quite attached to it over the years. I use it quite a lot. I don’t fancy having it bitten off.”

“Someone has to do it and I don’t see why it should be me. I didn’t puncture the raft. It was you who damaged it, so you should fix it. Take some responsibility for your actions!”

“Sue me when we get to the nearest maritime court or take it out of my rations, but I am not sticking my hand in the water, not while those creatures are attacking us!”

In a dreadful silence, they watched the life raft wither on one side. Cold seawater rushed in and swirled around them. Their eyes widened with every frantic second of unfolding theatre. Andrew’s brain went into overdrive. Overwhelmed with fear he moaned,

“Thiscan’t be happening to me. Is this it? Is this the end? He started to pray, mumbling the words incoherently and whimpering like a beaten dog,“The Lord is my Shepherd, there is...” Bull picked up his half-carved paddle and said,

“Where is your God now, Sherlock? I think we need something sharper than archaic words to defend ourselves.” As he approached the aperture, his weight put further pressure on the struggling side of the raft. More water flooded in, rising around their waists. Malcolm was floating head first towards the aperture and the ocean beyond. Bull caught him by the belt and Andrew returned him to a sitting position. Bull felt envious of Malcolm. He would be oblivious of his own demise. His own death would be slow and agonising. With his head protruding from the vessel, Bull searched for signs of their tormentors. Momentarily, he was distracted by seagulls swooping above his head, as if drawn to the desperate spectacle unfolding below. To him their squawking sounded like cynical laughter, confirming his belief, in essence, that all seagulls were maleficent incontinent bastards. Bull looked down and through the water, into the deep. He returned his torso inside the raft. His face was ashen white.

“There’s more than one. They’re underneath us, rising up from the deep,” he said. Andrew’s complexion was like cold grey marble. Bull’s words passed through him. He was staring at Malcolm, slumped by his side. Hysterically, he said,

“I don’t want to die, not here, not like this. We need to escape, but there’s nowhere to go. No way out. We need to think!” The voice of Andrew’s Grandfather emerged from the shadows of his mind. Andrew unwittingly spoke his words out loud, “Think man. Think! You’ve been in tighter spots than this. You’re a fighter! You’re a winner. A leader. You have the blood of the Black Douglas in you...” Andrew’s mother’s voice interjected, challenging his Grandfather, “Oh, shut up you tiresome old toff. The boy’s in a pickle and he needs some practical advice, not some of your dubious claims to be remotely connected to the Crown.” Bull stared at Andrew aghast. His mouth was wide open and his face contorted by the incomprehension of what he was witnessing.

“Hush now,” said Andrew. His voice was an octave higher as Ashley entered his mental fray. Returning Bull’s worrisome glare, he realised the internal voices had been released and had become audible. He fought to control his ramblings and keep them caged inside his mind. We need to work together and pull as one continued Ashley’s voice, but now concealed within his brain. Roy Beer’s voice then boomed above the internal utterances. A rising sensation grew within Andrew’s chest when his hero stamped his authority. Ashley is right, this is not a time to squabble but a time to act as a team. Andrew, is there anything on the vessel you could use to distract the creatures while your shipmate makes some repairs to the raft? It dawned on Andrew there was a means of surviving the ordeal. Andrew’s upper and lower teeth were set together as one and his neck twitched like a caged battery hen. He grabbed Bull by the arm and nodded to Malcolm. He said,

“We could throw him overboard. He’s practically dead anyway. While they are eating him, you could make the repairs.” Bull gazed at Malcolm slumped in a far corner, the lower half of his body submerged in water. With a look of contempt he turned to Andrew and said,

“That’s murder. I won’t let you do it! Think of something else. We could strap your multi-tool to the end of my paddle and fend them off. They might leave us alone if we put up a fight.” Bull waited for a sign of approval but was disturbed by Andrew’s cold sneer. He squealed,

“Stab it in the eye? Look what happened with your last attempt. You punctured the raft!” Bull tried to swallow a lump at the back of his parched throat. Petulantly, he withdrew his arm from Andrew’s grip and growled,

“Fuck you Sherlock. We can play the blame game later, but right now I need you to entertain it while I try and fix the puncture.” Andrew’s voice was laden with anxiety. He yelled,

“Entertain it? Are you for real? I seem to have misplaced my bagpipes!”

“Just distract it!”

“Distract them with what!” Bull held up his piece of wood and exclaimed,

“Punch them, kick them, throw something at them, it doesn’t matter.”

“This isn’t some brawl in a sleazy Manchester brew shack.”Bull turned with a look of incredulity on his face and said,

“Who said I was from Manchester? I never told you where I came from. Did my parochial accent give the game away? You’re an arrogant bastard …” Andrew turned to him in a fit of rage. His mouth foamed like a rabid dog. He roared,

“We are going to die! If you’re going to become enraged then why not direct your insults at one of those things out there?” Bull’s face contorted in confusion as if the idea was, not only insane but pointless.

“Go take a meat hook to yourself Sherlock,” said Bull before he poked his head out of the aperture. Bull’s eyes were wet with fear as he contemplated putting his hands into the water to repair the damaged pontoon. Andrew looked at Bull’s rear end He contemplated Hextending a two footed kick to send him into the sea. To his surprise, when Bull turned his head, he was smiling. He stated with a wry look,

“They’ve gone. You must have frightened them away when you lost the plot back there.”

Andrew let out a long lamentable sigh and then fell silent in prayer. Pulling his knees up under his chin, he rocked himself. Later, he wondered how Roy Beer would have marked him if the sorry episode had been a simulation in one of his field training exercises. Unlikely to receive full marks, he concluded. When he looked up, Bull was hanging out of the raft repairing the puncture. From the items he had collected from the sea, he used a wine cork to plug the hole and a rubber band to hold it in place. For further strength he inserted several plastic toothpicks, to help fasten the rubber to the cork bung. He returned several times to check his repairs under the waterline. A trickle of air could be detected, but as long as they kept inflating the raft was secure, he thought. His head dripping wet, he returned and attached the inflator to the damaged pontoon. The raft started to regain its shape. Andrew said,

“Where are you from then?” Bull stopped to take his breath. He gasped,

“Salford. It’s not Manchester. There’s a difference. So you play the bagpipes do you?”

Later, from the aperture, Bull looked towards the heavens. He spotted an isolated patch of blue sky unmasked in the moisture laden heavens. It was merely an affirmation there was an actual celestial sphere behind the clouds. He knew the image was merely short-wave bands of blue light from the sun, scattering in the earth’s atmosphere, but for an instant he felt connected to something out-with the life raft, out-with the boundless sea and beyond the planet.

Bull was convinced this day’s sun was sinking in a different location from yesterday’s sun. He looked into the darkening, featureless ocean desert and wondered if they were going in circles. A last burst of sunlight penetrated the grey curtain of cloud. An onyx sky. Layers of scarlet meandering bands appeared in the west. It felt like a good sign, but he didn’t know why. There was just something sublime and metaphysical about certain sunsets. He returned from the aperture and sat in cold contemplative silence, bailing the raft, re-inflating the pontoon and only stopping to take sips of water. The hunger pangs returned with added vengeance and his stomach made rumbling protests, demanding to be fed. Bull decided to sleep.

Andrew believed the canopy was making him feel claustrophobic and even considered this as an excuse for his recent outburst. With Bull asleep, he folded down the canopy. A blanket of darkness crept from the east, snuffing out the trailing sunlight. The invading shadow affected him spiritually. At a pagan level. He remembered stories his grandmother told him before bed, tales of mythical creatures travelling over the sea and into the living realm, from the Otherworld. They would emerge during the succinct moments before dusk and only return at dawn, when the door between the two worlds was reopened. The Druids had called this movement, the Ninth Wave. Without warning, a gust of wind brushed over the raft and the night descended on them like a falcon on its prey. Andrew trembled at the sudden change of light and temperature. So close to the sea and exposed under the night sky, he felt small and vulnerable. Like a child on a first camp without the adults. He disentangled his lure and decided that a spot of night fishing would re-focus his mind.