“Get yourselves up on deck and watch the sun rise. I’ll make some breakfast,” he said.
Hep and Scroat stumbled out of bed and past Poseidon, who was lighting the stove, up on to the deck.
The sky was mostly clear, already light, but the sun wasn’t visible yet. The water was calm. It was extremely peaceful.
“Yep, this was sure worth getting out of bed for,” Scroat said. “I’m still not dry from the fucking storm last night.”
“There was really a storm? I didn’t notice.”
“Lucky you. I thought I was going to get fried by lightning and swept out to sea.”
“Wow. Seems nice now, at least.”
Scroat sat down and crossed his arms. “So our options are mind-numbing boredom or butt-puckering terror. This is going to be awesome.”
“Maybe you just need to accept the experience as it is instead of resisting it?”
Scroat looked at Hep as though he didn’t know him. Just accept the experience?
“Have you become a filthy hippy Buddhist in the last twenty four hours? That’s just what I need, to be stuck on a boat with a Buddhist and some guy who looks like a skinny SoCal Santa Claus.”
Hep laughed. “He does look like a skinny Santa, doesn’t he? No, I’m not a Buddhist, I’m just thinking that it’s a long swim from here to shore, and that our choices are enjoy the trip, or have a miserable time.”
“Well, I’m planning to stay in the latter group, but don’t let me get you down. Hippy.”
Poseidon stuck his head out the companionway. “Come and get it!” he said.
Hep and Scroat walked over, and Poseidon handed up a couple of plastic bowls. Whatever was inside was grey and lumpy, with bits of fruit here and there.
“What the fuck is this shit? Where’s the bacon?” Scroat said. “After a night like that, I think I deserve some fucking bacon.”
“They’re power oats. Oatmeal, flaxseed, raisins, apples and, you know, cinnamon and sugar. Easy to make in one pot, and they’ll keep your insides clean. Hang on, there’s coffee, too.”
Scroat glared at Hep. “Two hippies. I’m stuck on a small boat with two granola-eating, Buddist-evangelist fucking sea hippies. I’m not even going to give Inktomi a headstart when I see him next, I’m just going to shoot him when he’s not looking.”
Hep had ignored him and started eating his oatmeal.
“Believe it or not, this is pretty good,” he said. “I like the raisins.”
Poseidon was back in the companionway, with a couple of mugs.
“Coffee!”
Hep and Scroat took their mugs and sat down. Scroat poked at his oatmeal a bit, and finally gave in and tried it.
“What do you think?” Hep asked.
“I’ve had worse.” Scroat said.
Poseidon came up on deck then, carrying his own bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee. He took a deep breath and smiled at the sun rising over the ocean. “That never gets old,” he said
“Did you know you look like a skinny Santa Claus?” Scroat asked him.
“Whatever, Santa looks like a fat me. I’ve been wearing this look since before Saint Nicholas was a monk. You look like the Krampus, only stupid.”
Scroat looked insulted, but leaned over to Hep and whispered, “Who was the Krampus?”
“Sort of an anti-Santa.”
“Oh. I can live with that, I guess.”
“He was hideous.”
“Related to you guys, then, huh?”
“Man, you’re in some mood this morning. Finish your oatmeal and go sleep, would you?”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” Scroat said. He ate the rest of his oatmeal as quickly as he could, handed his, still full, coffee up to Hep and got up.
Poseidon handed him a mesh bag with a drawstring. “Put your bowl and spoon in there. We’ll tow the dishes behind the boat for a while so washing them won’t require much fresh water or effort.”
“Now there’s something I can like about boats. Easy dishwashing.”
“Later you’re going to have to scrub the deck.”
“Damn it anyway. I’m going to sleep now.” Scroat went below, muttering curses under his breath.
“Well, he’s got the muttering part down. Seems to me his already half-way to being a seasoned sailor!” Poseidon said. “Remind me to buy him some cans of spinach when we stop in Brookings.”
“How long will that be?”
“Oh, about eight more days, maybe less if we have some good wind and don’t have to fight the seas too much.”
“Cool.”
Hep sat back and looked out at the ocean for a few minutes. He looked around a bit and saw more ocean in the other direction. Apart from lumpy blue water, there really wasn’t a whole lot to look at.
“So, uh, what do we do for the next eight days?”
Poseidon looked at him as though he had just asked what a kid in a toy store should do on “all the free toys you want” day.
“Well,” Poseidon said, “we’ll sail. And we can fish, of course. We can also play chess or checkers, and I’ve got a few books stashed away below if you want to read.”
Hep was not accustomed to doing, more or less, nothing for days in a row. Sailing was nice, but most of the time so far had been made of up sitting on the boat, with an occasional foray in to pulling ropes every so often. With the autopilot, they didn’t even need to steer. He felt a strange claustrophobia. He was stuck on a little boat, without anything to do with his hands.
The prospect of sitting, bored, for eight days was nearly enough to convince him that leaping overboard and swimming east was a really, really good idea. Accepting the situation instead of resisting it did seem rather foolish.
“I’ve got a book of knots and a couple short lengths of line if those other options aren’t appealing. You can find them on the shelf over the port settee.”
“Sorry?”
“They’re over the couch on the left side of the boat.”
“Oh, cool. I’m going to check that out.”
“Start by learning the bowline. It’ll make you more useful right away. Then learn the clove hitch.”
“Got it.” He went below and found a book called The Marlinspike Sailor, and a couple lengths of rope about two feet long. He took these items and went back up on deck.
Poseidon was standing behind the wheel, steering by hand.
“Don’t you want to let the autopilot steer?” Hep asked.
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“Fair enough.”
Hep opened the book, skimmed over the introduction about the tradition and historical importantance of knotwork and dove straight into the instructions on how to tie a knot. Within twenty minutes he could tie a bowline (he made a mental note to pronounce it boh-lin) with his eyes closed. He got the hang of the clove hitch within minutes, and by the end of the day knew more knots than most sailors ever would.
Poseidon told him there was a stash of old line in the engine room he could use to try making some of the more advanced ropework.
“I think I’ve even got a golf ball down there somewhere, if you want to try making a monkey’s fist. Otherwise I can always use some more fenders. That should keep you busy, too.”
Dinner that night was spaghetti, and they each had a gimlet (“to fend off scurvy,” Poseidon explained) for sundowners. As the sun set, there was a brief green flash just as the sun dipped below the horizon.
“That was a special treat for you guys, if you didn’t know it. A sailor doesn’t get to see a whole lot of green flashes.”
“Groovy,” Scroat said. He looked at his watch, and polished off his gimlet.
“I think it’s pretty cool,” Hep said.
“So who’s got the first watch tonight?” Scroat asked.
“I guess I’ll take it,” Hep said.
“Awesome. Good night!” Scroat scrambled down in to the cabin so quickly it seemed like he’d vanished.
“I don’t think Scroat cares much for sailing,” Poseidon said. “That’s too bad.”
“He’d probably like it better if there were a few girls in bikinis on board. Or maybe a stash of mermaid porn.”
“Jeez, and here I am, fresh out of bikini models and nautical porn. Maybe we can stock up on both of those in Brookings. Well, probably not the bikini girls. It starts getting cold by the time we’re up there.”
“Cold and bikini girls don’t really go together too well,” Hep said.
“Not so much. It shouldn’t be too hard for him to find some porn, though. Well, I supposed I’d better get some shut eye. Good night!”
“Good night,” Hep said.
He set a heading on the autopilot, put Poseidon’s binoculars around his neck, and settled in for three hours of sailing in the dark.
The stars were brilliant, even better than they’d been at his house in the middle of the desert. Every so often he’d look around the boat to make sure they weren’t on a collision course with an oil tanker, but otherwise he looked up at the stars for most of his watch. He wondered if maybe he could convince Poseidon to teach him celestial navigation to pass the time. It could be a handy thing to know.
Soon enough, it was time for Scroat’s watch. Hep was not surprised when Scroat did not come up on deck on time. He took a quick look around for dangers to the boat, made sure they were still on the right heading, and went below to wake Scroat up.
The cabin was lit with a kerosene lantern, and Poseidon was sleeping on the settee underneath it. Hep snuck past him as quietly as he could manage, but still woke him up.
“Is there a problem of some sort?”
“No, I just need to wake Scroat up. It’s his watch.”
“Oh, OK,” Poseidon said. He fell back asleep almost instantly.
Hep reached Scroat’s berth, and shook his shoulder to wake him up.
“Hey, it’s your watch,” Hep said.
“Huh?” Scroat groaned. “Oh, fuck, already?”
“Yep. Here are the binoculars. Have a good time up there.”
“Right, a good time. Pleasant fucking dreams, asshole.”
Scroat did not attempt to sneak quietly through the cabin but, despite the commotion, Poseidon did not wake up. He climbed up into the cockpit, and shut the hatch.
The second the hatch was shut, the wind picked up and rain began to pour down.
“Awesome. Just fucking awesome,” Scroat muttered.
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