Posted: Jun 28, 08 8:52am
It came in great sheets - walls of shattered seas from any of a thousand directions. Water and sky twisted together, belching a great roar from within. Sight and sound blended into the absence of color - without form, causing rippling waves of crashing sound to accompany the constant bellowing of the gods.
All that the eye could see had turned from lovely blues and azure into various shades of gray. Time didn't seem to pass... nor exist. It was the beginning and the end, Alpha and Omega all rolled together, twisted, mangled and splattered across the seascape. Water and sky became indistinguishable.
Distressed seas spat at him. They slapped him.
The top of the mast swung surprisingly quick as the ship rolled and pitched against the torn sea. Loose shrouds lashed about. Stripped and torn, the sail’s canvas made a burring sound with each windy assault.
In his heart and soul, he knew he must endure it. For now, he was an officer in the young United States’ Navy - only the bravest of men, stalwart and stout, facing all of life’s terrors with composure and honor. And today was no different for any officer in that service, matching their strength of will against the sea. And like any other officer might do, he had made his own decision to literally throw caution to the winds and save the mainmast.
If only the tossing and turning and wind and rain would let him finish what he'd climbed up here for. If only the blood would return to his face... if only his food would stay in his stomach...
The young farmer’s son imagined himself a seasoned veteran, a tough old seadog that knew the ropes – pushing him to accomplish what he wasn’t quite sure he could accomplish. It seemed to help, anyway. It was like a battle that had to be won… "At any cost," he told himself.
Water… huge slices of water, as big as mountains, threatened to cut off his triumph. The view was blurring, waving and wobbling, and then the wind came again. It was so intense, that, for a moment, he didn’t know if his vision was real or imagined. Salty spray stung his eyes, thrashing the only sense he still had left. With the loss of vision, the immovable powers of the Earth again threatened this poor man's equilibrium. Nausea overcame him.
Young Stephen Hathorne spewed his stomach's contents into that indomitable wind. Breathing heavily, he allowed his long thin form to lie still for only a few seconds… precious seconds.
Crashing sound and gray replaced his great vision… relief washing over his thin, pale face. For a moment, he just hugged the boom close to where it met the mast, draped over it like a piece of torn laundry, dripping wet from the pail. A slight pang of regret entered through his defenses as he thought about that precious meal lost in the storm.
Food on United States Naval vessels was generally better than any merchant, but it all tasted the same after a month or two at sea... Taste, most assuredly, was the wrong word for it. Despite its lack of palatability, it was still a commodity not to be taken lightly out here.
Thinking of the food inevitably led to thoughts of mealworms in the biscuits... “Oh, God...”
More nausea threatened him.
That’s enough... think about the task at hand, you fool, he told himself. “Let us hope that my constitution is stronger than salt pork and hardtack!" he spat out when he regained his speech.
