Against the Sea
Tales On and Under the Sea
John E. Christ
© 2015 John E. Christ - All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of any part of this material without express and written permission from the author is strictly prohibited. The moral right of John E. Christ (the author) has been asserted.
Table of Contents
Preface
The Long Arm of the Sea
The Storm
Atum Bom
The Eye Exam
Wipe Out
Pirates for a Night
Too Easy
Upon This Rock
Preface
Stories about the sea are always intriguing. Two thirds of our planet is covered with water which makes for an exciting venue for stories. This collection is a mix of true, nearly true, and possible tales above and below the water. In The Long Arm of the Sea, a father and son go through a rite of passage in fighting an unexpected sea monster; in The Storm, inclement weather takes an unexpected different form; in Atum Bom, an advanced type of submarine encounters the unexpected on a test voyage; in The Eye Exam, passing a licensing exam to become a captain is not as easy as it looks; in Wipe Out, the sea is an unpredictable and unforgiving force; in Pirates for a Night, there is more to consider when getting a captain’s license; in Too Easy what seems easy may not be so; and in Upon This Rock, men at sea will always get their just rewards. Let us lift anchor, throw off our lines, and head out to sea; adventure awaits us!
The Long Arm of the Sea
Only the regular creaking of the oarlocks broke the silence of the night as the tiny skiff glided out into the harbor under a clear moonless sky. The constellations painted the heavens with their individual stars easily identified to anyone who cared to look upward. The oars sliced downward into the water, propelled the skiff forward and exited up out of the water with little effort from the boy who was barely breathing hard from his efforts. His father sat in the stern gazing forward across the bow searching the dark for their destination ahead. The boy stared mindlessly at his father using anger, fear, and affection to help him with each stroke of the oars against the water. His father pulled a single cigarette from somewhere out of the dark recesses of his wool coat and lit it with a single match cupped between his hands. The sudden flare of the match temporarily blinded the boy with a green after-image. Blinking several times, he wished his father would treat him more like a man. At 15, he was certainly old enough. He could do the physical work of any man, but his father said he had to learn how to be tough first. That was always the difficult part; he never ever seemed tough enough for his father no matter what he did.
Off to starboard, they quickly recognized the sound of another approaching skiff. The boy pulled the oars out of the water and held them motionless in the air. Listening carefully, his father took a deep drag on his cigarette, held his breath a moment and exhaled smoke out his nostrils. He saw the dim amber light of another cigarette temporarily brighter, no more than 20 yards away. The distant light sailed lazily across the water coming ever closer.
“Ahoy there!”
“Ahoy!” His father shouted without emotion. “Who goes there?”
A skiff similar to theirs came out of the misty dark. Within were two men, one standing in the stern, the other holding oars in the air, both dressed in uniforms of the local police.
“Turks,” his father muttered under his breath with disgust, loud enough for his son to hear. “Careful what you say and don’t move unless I tell you.”
The boy nodded and said nothing.
“What can I do for you officer?” His father said solemnly.
“Let me see your papers, if I may,” the man standing said gruffly. “What business do you have being out so late?”
“We are going fishing.” His father reached into his coat. “I think you will find our papers are in order.”
The two skiffs gently bumped together, a slim envelope retrieved from the inside coat pocket was passed across to the officer who immediately opened it. The other officer lit a lantern and held it up to the papers and read.
“So, Mr. Christodoulou, you are Greek, are you not?” The officer said slowly.
“Yes sir,” Mr. Christodoulou said crisply.
“And you live in Mudanya?” The officer folded the papers back into the envelope.
“All my life, officer,” Mr. Christodoulou said. “And my son has been born and raised there also.”
“There is nothing to fear. Your papers are in order.” The officer broke into a smile. “Take your papers and good luck with your fishing.”
“Thank you, officer,” Mr. Christodoulou said. “May I ask why you stopped us?”
“Do we need an excuse to stop you, effendi?” The officer smirked.
“Of course not, I was just curious. These are hard and dangerous times and we must be prepared for any trouble that might come our way.”
“You are Greek. We have no quarrels with you or your people.” The officer laughed. “It’s the damn Armenians who are causing us trouble and we mean to stop it. Don’t you agree, effendi?”
“I couldn’t agree more wholeheartedly.” He smiled at the officer.
“If the Armenians don’t behave, we will cut off their heads and feed them to the jackals.” The officer laughed louder. “May Allah bless your soul.”
“And yours also.” Mr. Christodoulou watched the Turkish officers push away with oars in the water.
“Put the oars back in the water and let’s be on our way quickly,” he whispered. “You can never trust those sons of bitches.”
With the first stroke of the oars, the skiff lurched forward. In a matter of seconds they were again alone in the dark. It was a lesson in caution that excited the boy’s imagination and helped forge the lust for adventure he would acquire as he grew older. The outline of their other boat moored to a buoy made its appearance through the dark.
“We have arrived by the grace of God,” his father said loudly. “Let’s get this blackbox I’ve been sitting on board and be on our way quickly out to sea.”
“Why the hurry?” The boy blurted out before he realized his mistake and questioned his father.
The angry stare of his father’s eyes brought a chill to his spine and a hope that he would not be struck for his insolence.
“We must be on our way quickly before those nosy Turks come back,” his father said urgently. “There is no time to argue a question. Just do what I say.”
“Yes, father,” the boy said with an uncertain sigh of relief. He knew he was lucky this time, maybe not the next.
The boy brought the skiff alongside the larger boat. His father nimbly grasped the boat’s rail and leaped aboard.
“Hand me the box, boy,” his father said. “And be careful not to drop it.”
He secured the oars and passed the box on board to his father without difficulty.
“Now tie the skiff to the buoy and get on board. We must hurry.” His father scanned the dark in every direction.
“Yes, father,” the boy barely whispered.
As the boy tied the skiff to the buoy, he heard a brief whine followed by a low rumble of the engine coming to life. A cold breeze washed across his face as he climbed into the boat. He looked upward and soft fingers of dark clouds began blocking out some of the stars above. He released the bow line attached to the buoy and cautiously moved from the deck of the bow into the safety of the pilot house. The outgoing tide slowly pushed the boat away from the buoy and skiff. When they were safely clear, his father engaged the forward clutch and set the propeller in motion. He turned the wheel to port a
nd advanced the throttle in small increments, listening to the increasing whine of the propeller shaft until he reached a point he felt comfortable. The boat moved lazily into motion, parting the water ahead with a gentle hissing splash.
“Make sure the box is secure,” his father said flatly. “We will be out of the harbor in a few moments.”
When he returned from the task he saw his father smiling with one hand on the wheel, the other holding a lit cigarette near his lips.
“You know, boy,” his father began. “Our family has always made a living from the sea. My father before me, his father before him, as far back as anyone can remember. Learn what you can, the sea will be your life as it has been mine. You must respect the sea because it will not respect you. It is a tough life, but it will make you a man.”
“When will I know I’m a man?” the boy said softly.
“Where you are, I was; where I am, you will come.” His father laughed. “When you become tough enough, you will be a man.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette.
The boy cringed with a pang of disappointment. He longed to be recognized and respected by his father for the man he was becoming. On his next birthday he knew what he had to do. America was the land of opportunity. Next year he would go there and prove himself once and for all. His father would certainly recognize him when he became successful on his own. All it would take would be a little time and careful planning. These thoughts warmed his spirit and brought a smile to his face.
Although it was pitch dark, they reached the channel leading out to sea easily. His father had done this so many times before it was almost instinctive. Never become so comfortable that you do things without thinking, his father would say, the sea is a fickle mistress and can change at moment’s notice. There is no excuse for an accident, except by an act of God, he added. There was enough visibility to navigate by watching the distance between both banks of the narrow outlet. With a slowly developing headwind the air was heavy with the scent of salt.
“I expect there’ll be a chop as we go out.” His father flicked the remaining portion of his cigarette overboard. “Be sure to hold on.”
The boy nodded and grasped onto the edge of the pilot house. He looked back across the stern and felt a warm thrill travel down his arms. The open scene of stars on a blanket of black sky never ceased to impress him. The smoke from the exhaust and the spray from the wake created an unmistakable odor he would remember all his life. That odor would be the trigger to recall countless memories of nights and scenes such as this.
“Here we are,” his father said calmly.
The bowed dipped suddenly followed by the slap of the first wave against the side. A combination of tide and wind were working in concert. The water was in chaos. His father deftly piloted the boat through with little fear or difficulty.
“Try to stay near the sides of the cut.” His father enjoyed lecturing. “The water is calmer there and it is easier to move.”
“What about . . .,” The boy started to say.
“Of course, you must always be careful of the rocks on the sides,” his father continued. “Go close, but not so close as to put yourself in danger. Always give yourself room to maneuver.”
The boy remained silent and listened carefully. His father’s lessons were pearls of wisdom he recognized as valuable. He hoped he would be able to show, someday soon, how much he remembered. If only he had a chance, the boy would say over and over to himself, someday, someday soon, I hope, he thought.
“Take the wheel. We’re clear of the cut. Keep heading on this bearing while I take a piss.”
The boy took note of the bearing on the compass mounted in front of the wheel. He grasped a spoke handle on each side with authority. His father turned away and walked to the stern where he unbuttoned the fly of his pants and relieved himself in the trailing wake. With a few shakes to the wind, he quickly re-buttoned his fly, returned and stood beside the boy.
“The wind is picking up and clouds are moving in,” his father said. “I think it will get a little sloppy before we get home.”
“Are we going to meet with the British tonight?” the boy said carefully.
“Yes,” his father said. “...another delivery to the stupid British.”
The boy stared straight ahead, waiting. If his father was in a good mood, he would talk almost endlessly in good humor. Otherwise conversation would be severely limited to exchanges of necessary commands and responses.
His father laughed. “I’m sure it is no secret to you what is in the black box; even though I’ve never told you.”
“I think I know, but I’m not sure,” the boy said slowly. He knew he should never tell his father anything that could be interpreted as disobedience to his commands.
“Let me tell you so you know for certain,” his father said warmly. “In the box is the fruit of the poppy.”
“Opium?” The boy turned to his father.
“Yes, opium; the stupid British pay us in hard pounds for what we grow for free.” His father chuckled. “A fair exchange don’t you think?”
With a nod and a knowing grin the boy turned forward. He focused attention on the sea ahead.
“The waves are still 2 to 3 feet but that will change soon I’m sure.” His father scanned the sea ahead. “Tell me when you see any ship lights.”
His father stepped back and pulled another cigarette out of the coat pocket. Bending slightly, he cupped his hands. The cigarette lit with the first match in spite of the wind. He tossed the match overboard and sucked long and hard throwing his head back before blowing out the smoke upward into the night sky. He went and sat on the fish box in the open air of the stern deck. He hunched over with elbows and knees and hands together, he closed his eyes in what appeared a silent prayer. The boy knew he was now alone and responsible until his father thought otherwise.
It was difficult being an only child; a childhood without a brother or sister robbed him of those experiences only children playing together can have. Growing up with adults was hard and, at times, brutal. It’s unfair to be judged by adult standards when I’m not an adult, but worse yet to be treated like a child when I’ve come of age, the boy thought ironically. Everything he did was an attempt to please his father and gain the approval he needed so badly; to finally be recognized he was becoming an adult. Someday he wanted to hear his father say “Son, you are now a man!”
The movement of the deck reflected the shape and height of the waves. As the first hour ended and the second began, the waves became 4 to 6 feet with the wind gusting enough to bring a noticeable shudder to the side of the pilot house. At times, a mournful wail rose above the cacophony of the engine and sea. The boy did not know what Aeolian tones were and believed the sound represented the presence of some sea spirit. He had asked his father about the sound many times before, but all his father did was shrug his shoulders saying it was nothing.
“I see a red and white light ahead,” the boy said loudly. “It’s a little off to port.”
His father rose slowly from his seat and stood beside the boy. “Yes, I see it. Don’t change direction and we shall come together with our visitor very soon.”
“Are you sure it’s friendly?” the boy said. “How can we be certain?”
“The time and place is right,” his father said flatly. “...besides there is our signal.”
Above the lights in the distance appeared a succession of three red flares.
“Can there be any doubt now?” His father laughed smugly. “When we get closer I will take the wheel and I’ll want you to get the black box ready for transfer to our friends.”
The boy kept his position. He knew what to do and would not hesitate when the time came. A thrill of excitement warmed his blood and brought a smile to his face. Trafficking in opium was frowned upon by the government, but unofficially approved by the local authorities who put a blind eye toward the booming business. The demand for opium was great. Revolution in Russia and the great world war created a massive mar
ket for drugs to alleviate pain. The opium was always sold to the highest bidder, no matter what the political affiliation. Business was always business. Whoever was caught selling opium was simply fined by the local police and paid by a healthy split of the profits. The law was satisfied and everyone involved benefited.
“It’s time for me to take over,” his father said gruffly. “Stand aside and get the box ready.”
“I’ll wrap the box in oilcloth and tie it with a rope.” The boy anticipated his father’s next instruction.
“I can see I’ve taught you well.” His father smiled. “Go ahead and get it ready now.”
The complement was not lost on the boy. He pulled his shoulders back with a sense of pride that he had received a compliment. It was not much, but it did make him feel more important and more adult.
The red and white lights in the distance were joined by the appearance of a green one. His father reached for a switch next to the compass and turned their lights off and on several times. The approaching boat did the same in reply. Out of the darkness appeared a one hundred seventy-five foot British boat which dwarfed their thirty-six footer. A wave from each and they positioned their bows into the wind, a little more than twenty-five yards apart. With a few additional preliminaries they were ready for business. The captain of the British ship stepped out of his pilothouse. He was a man of average height and build, distinguished only by a well-trimmed red beard. He cupped his hands on each side of his mouth and shouted. “Ahoy, Captain! Are you there?”
“Ahoy, Captain!” His father shouted. “Is it business as usual?”
“May Saint Nicholas bless our ships,” the British captain said.
“May it be so.” His father smiled at the proper signal. Everything was as planned. He glanced at the silver icon of Saint Nicholas fixed next to the right side of the wheel. The icon had been passed down for generations from father to son, kept aboard their boats for good luck and protection on the sea. Someday he would pass it on to his son. He knew Saint Nicholas would always help him whenever necessary. It was a faith from which he never wavered. He touched the icon with his right hand and made the sign of the cross going up, down, right, left with three fingers pressed together.
Against the Sea: Tales On and Under the Sea Page 1