CLASHES

His breath smelled worse than a pile of dead salmon. The tiniest sway of the hull churned stomachs with undigested food. A simple task was all the captain asked, but all in vain did the weather change these plans. Huddled together beneath the stern’s darkness, two men were now stuck on their small quarter beds. A raspy wind caught the upper deck and tilted wet, musty fishnets into the air. Knickknacks and trinkets of times past flew unknowingly into the steel walls. A cellar door was all that shielded the two from the outside elements. Harold could feel the pull of his bed against bolts holding it in place.

“This is the captain’s fault,” Harold whispered.

Harold could’ve been in a better place, alone and soaking rays by the silky sands. He knew it was all a lie. He lied to himself all the time. His lies began the day he stepped foot on the vessel.

His blue eyes had never seen such a vessel. A wide, stained deck with the lightest shade of brown, plucked with giant fishing nets and sturdy ropes. A family of whales could get stuck in those nets, sprawled out along the deck’s corners, some floating into the air by a spinning wheel. These machines were few, but powerful enough to snap a rope and bring a careless man overboard. The captain’s quarters overlooked the crew’s work, nestled in the warmth while watching his sonar.

In the company of Harold was a young lad who just celebrated his eighteenth birthday. He was the one smelling up the little space with his salmon breath.

“No,” Treavor screamed. “No one knew this was going to happen!”

Harold wanted to ask how in the world Treavor could hear that low, whispered growl. Just a perk of being a younger lad, he supposed. Despite the angry demeanor, Harold seemed like he was finally growing a soft spot for this kid. But that thought was quickly overshadowed by one gaze at the lad’s neatly pressed shirt and black, shiny shoes. He was young all right and was a sucker for following orders. He hadn’t been here for two months, and he already achieved grasping the biggest catch of them all. The inside of the hull held beds two by two, and his resembled a college dorm room.

The vessel rocked and pushed against its own weight. Loud thunderclaps of seawater pounded the top deck without a single regret. All that fish they caught, was wasted. Probably a few of them managed to swim back to coral reefs and speckled plants to hide under.

The window shutters were not an option, for they were locked shut.

Another thud hit the deck. The beds were still holding up, nets still floating midair.

“Where’s the captain?” Treavor asked, pulling at the rim of his glasses.

Harold couldn’t hold the truth any longer.

“He’s gone,” he said. “I saw him up top, smacked by a wave. His body’s floating six miles away right now.”

Treavor’s reaction didn’t help their situation.

“What—” he began.

“We can’t sit here, kid,” Harold said.

Despite the warning, Treavor remained clasped to his bed, his hands curled around a poorly sawed bedpost.

“That thing ain’t going to hold!” Harold screamed. “Get up and get moving!”

Another wave crashed into the hull; the weight of the beds shifted. The walls tilted to the left side. Harold grasped his wife’s crocheted bed sheet with a small shriek. He looked over again at Treavor, but the boy’s eyes were glossy and widened with speckles of white to accompany his fears. His fingers gripped the bed post more tightly. A picture fell off the wall and slid loudly across the floorboards, right into Harold’s foot. He picked it up.

A message: Fisherman of the month.

Harold let out another shriek, but not of sudden movement. He let out frustration. That lad caught the biggest catch of them all, a compliment from his own boss. Treavor had a big smile on his face that day, but now he sat without expression clinging onto a bedpost.

He knew the boy wasn’t going anywhere, and the wind was starting to rock the ship back and forth with more vigorous movement than before. He lifted the bed sheet, lashing at it until he got a firm grip.

Harold grabbed one end of the quilt.

“Boy,” he screamed. “Catch this other end!”

But how hesitant he became. He saw the far-off stare in Treavor’s eyes. The boy was no longer aware of anything. That stare wasn’t a surprise to an old veteran.

It’s always the young ones, he thought.

The wind slid across the deck again and began to push against the cellar door. Small cracks in the steel now flowed with trinkles of seawater.

Harold’s instincts took over, no longer grasping the quilt but shaking and pulling at Treavor’s body.

“Get up, boy!”

He grabbed the underhook of the boy’s arm and pulled again. His back gave a gnawing pain, but nothing compared to the blinding punch suddenly aching across his head.

Harold no longer felt in control. The boy’s arm slipped out of his grip, and he flung about, tumbling onto the quarter’s floor. The floorboards turned a nasty brown.

He opened his eyes. His sight was no longer on Treavor or his belongings, for it had blurred into slushy hues of blue, gray, and white. A loud roar was coming from the top deck, and once Harold looked up, he suddenly caught something in the middle of the hues: the cellar door. It had burst open. The salty sea water poured from the deck to the brown floors, engulfing everything in sight.

A tightness suddenly hit his chest, reaching into his throat at quick speed. His eyes burned from the salty slush, trying to find his way out. Now, he could only see the dark shadows creeping up on him, and finally, tightly, they took control.

Kaitlyn Beck lives in Alabama and loves to write stories and occasionally draw. She is a fan of Wrestling and the band Queen. In her free time she likes to play Video Games and take care of her pets.