The Sleep of the Gods

by James Sperl

  “What food?” Tamara shouted from her position along the lifelines.

  “All the food in the big room in back,” Abby replied. “There’s tons of stuff. And barrels, too. What’re in those, mom?” she queried, her attention more focused on the new boat and all of its characteristics than on any real attainment of knowledge.

  Catherine knew, however, that even though Abby had asked the question, Josh would be the one to which she would be answering. And as she freed the bowline from the mooring cleat she could feel his eyes on her waiting for an explanation.

  “It’s water, honey,” she tossed out quickly. “Josh?”

  The mention of his name jolted Josh into a sudden state of awareness. “Yeah?”

  “Could you free those two spring lines for me?”

  Josh looked around the ship, a look of complete ignorance on his face.

  “Out here. On the float. These two in the middle.” Catherine pointed to two criss-crossed lines as she walked briskly past them to the stern, hastily freeing its mooring line from the dock cleat.

  Josh watched how his mother unwrapped the nylon rope in a peculiar series of figure eights, tossing the freed cord onto the ship. He emulated her, but at a much slower pace. Wresting the first of the two lines from its knotting, he threw the rope aboard in a similar fashion, moving quickly, to his surprise, to the remaining line.

  “Abby, gather those lines up, will you?” Catherine requested as she flipped open a seat bottom exposing a storage space filled with life jackets.

  “Gather it up how?” Abby asked, confounded at the inquiry.

  “Just pull them out of the way as best you can so we don’t trip over them,” Catherine directed, forgetting for the moment the immense lack of knowledge on the part of her children in regards to nautical terminology and procedure.

  Josh worked the last line free in half the time of the first. He threw the rope then hotfooted it onboard. Catherine met him at the top thrusting a sparkling new orange vest in his arms. “Put this on,” she directed.

  Josh took the vest, taking notice of his sisters who were already donning the latest in seaman’s attire, having seated themselves on a bench below the cockpit into which Catherine was now returning.

  She positioned herself at the helm, throwing a single switch on the control panel near the wheel. A low groan emanated from somewhere inside the hull, immediately inducing a look of panic in Tamara’s eyes. “It’s just the anchor, sweetie.”

  Catherine took a survey of her vessel: all lines had been cleared, the anchor was away, her children had put on their safety vests with virtually no fight—by all indications she was ready to set forth. And this sudden realization delivered a crippling wave of nausea directly to her belly.

  Was she really doing this?

  She turned around and looked down at her precious children as she took hold of the wheel. There would be many questions. And she would stay true to her word, answering each with as much honesty as she could. But they were not alone in their befuddlement. While she could provide some resolution to their inquests, a lonely thought tampered with her own need for explanation: who would be there to answer questions for her?

  The anchor broke the surface of the water, its chain coiling automatically around the windlass until the remaining slack had been absorbed, the anchor coming to rest in its home position on the hull.

  This was it.

  The boat was adrift now. Catherine found the throttle and shifted into the maximum speed allowed inside the no wake zone as she angled the ship away from the pier and toward the main channel. She idled past the dozens of other moored pleasure boats and couldn’t help comparing them to a dog tied to a tree alongside a burning house. They were inanimate objects she knew, but there was still a sense of helplessness that weighed on her. Perhaps she was engaging in a form of transference, each of the boats representing someone in her life she held particularly close, unable to inform them of the knowledge with which she had been imparted.

  Grateful she was facing away from her children, Catherine succumbed to her emotions and let the tears fall. All of her friends, her mother, her brothers and sisters and other family, her neighbors—what would become of them all? She knew only time would tell and although not an especially religious person, sought the only comfort available to her and prayed. To whoever was listening.

  Catherine navigated past the last of the boats in the marina, giving cursory waves to other ships as they sailed past. And just beyond the breakwater directly ahead lay the ambiguous destination that would soon become home. Increasing speed, Catherine knew it was imperative, for the sake of her and her family, that she shed all the trappings of her former life and immediately assume the role of captain and mother. For a new life awaited her. One she had previously only envisioned, but would now become reality.

  Buoys marking the end of the no wake zone floated past on either side of the ship and without a moment’s hesitation, Catherine shifted the throttle to its furthest position. The engines roared to life, the bow pointed toward the horizon as Four Star Retreat embarked on its one-way voyage into the depths of the Big Blue.

  4

  Afloat

  August 30th – Day 63

  Nothing much happening today. I read some more of Swiss Family Robinson this morning and think that I really like it. It’s really neat how they live in the tree house all the time. Mom says it’s like that ride at Disney World where you can walk all through it and see how they lived. Josh says that we’re kind of like the Robinson family only instead of living in a tree we live on a boat. He’s getting really good at fishing too. He caught three fish yesterday. Mom called them amberjacks and said the biggest one was ten or fifteen pounds. We are eating a lot of fish now. The more the better mom says so we can perserve the food we brought. Abby doesn’t really like the food that much. She always complains about how it tastes, specially the powdered milk. But she drinks it cause mom says it’s important and that it still has a lot of vitamins and calcium. I don’t mind it too bad. I really wish I had an orange soda. I miss those. Okay, until next time. Bye!!

  Tamara snapped her diary shut, wrapping a moss green leather strap around the cover. She took her pen—a glitter filled shaft with a fuzzy cathead on the end where the cap should go—and jammed it in between the binding and the spine.

  She climbed to her feet, clasping her hands and arching her arms backward in a post-entry stretch as she stared off into the horizon. The sea was mercifully calm today. A far cry from two days ago when she was certain the boat was going to sink due to a powerful storm that had knocked them all silly. But they just put faith in the ship and rode it out, clutching one another, waiting for it to pass. She hated days like that.

  She hopped down from her favorite spot atop the galley and sauntered toward the stern of the ship. Josh, she knew, would be there. He was always there, taking on the role of provider as he tirelessly worked to perfect his fishing skills. And it was a good thing, too, she thought, since she was too small to handle the pole and Abby found fish to be “icky”.

  She clutched the lifeline as she traversed the starboard side of the ship, alternating steps between the deck and the gunwale as she made her way aft.

  Josh was sitting in his fighting chair, staring absently out to sea. He had just finished applying sun block to his arms, rubbing the remaining cream into his bronzing biceps. Catherine had insisted upon liberal use of sun block when above decks, but had been particularly adamant in regards to Josh, his pale and sun-shy skin the most susceptible to burns and skin damage. Even as Tamara approached she could make out thick traces of the liquid on his shoulder where he’d missed.

  She noticed he was wearing his deep sea harness but rather than seating the pole in the gimbel and securing it to his vest, as was his usual preference—regardless of whether or not he had a bite—had it and the ship’s only other pole in rod holders on either side of him. Listlessly bobbing with the rhythm of the sea, the lines trailed emptily behind the boat. />
  Not much had changed with Josh in their days at sea, Tamara mused. He was still the ever-reclusive, independent older brother she had always known. Only now, the person to whom she attributed those qualities didn’t much resemble the person sitting in that chair. His hair had grown quite lengthy and faced the scissors only one time that she could recall since embarking; he even developed several dreads, which he initially intended to cut free but ultimately kept, deciding he liked the extra-added character it gave him. His face was scruffy and although he grew hair in all the right places the volume didn’t seem adequate enough to completely qualify as a beard. His hands bore the salty scars of a seaman, from rope and line burns to hook wounds. His skin was a healthy brown, which surprised everyone considering his previous lack of exposure to the sun. More of an indoor guy, Josh once described himself as being part of the “fluorescent generation” since he believed he and others of his age and preoccupation were predisposed to work in cubicle-like environments under the steady hum of fluorescent tubes, drawing a hefty salary and suffering from vitamin D deficiency.

  “Catch anything?” Tamara said loudly, her tiny voice lost in the vastness of open water and tossed like chaff out to sea. Josh’s head cocked slightly. Then as if someone had just yelled in his ear, turned suddenly to find his sister.

  “What?” he called, his deepened voice cutting through the air.

  “I said did you catch anything?”

  “No, not yet. Been kinda dead today.”

  Tamara traipsed up beside him. She laid her small hand on the enormous fishing pole, her dainty fingers exploring inside the reel between the spool flange and the line. Josh, having discovered this transgression, snatched her hand free of the device. “Jesus Christ, Tamara! Are you trying to lose a finger?”

  “I was just looking at it,” she said, startled at his sudden action.

  “Looking at it’s one thing. Getting your hand sheared off is another. All that’s got to happen is just one fish bites that line. Once he does that he’s gonna be off. Know what happens then?” Josh pointed at the reel, making sure his own fingers were a safe distance away. “This thing turns into a saw blade and anything caught in its way pays the price. You understand?”

  Tamara nodded. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I just don’t want anything to happen to you that’s all. So, what’s up?”

  “I’m going below. You want anything?”

  Josh considered this for a moment before finally answering, “No. Thanks.”

  “Okay. Abby’s forward on the bow. Doing her usual thing.”

  Josh rolled his eyes as Tamara about-faced and began her journey back toward the cockpit and the stairs leading below. Her diary tucked firmly in her waistband, Tamara clutched the lifeline securely having long since adopted the sailing mantra one hand for you, one hand for the boat. This phrase had taken on an even greater significance five weeks ago when it had been decided in a family wide agreement to cease wearing their PFDs.

  It had been ruled that even though their personal flotation devices should be a mainstay of deck life, they were in fact very cumbersome and unwieldy for day to day living. Catherine, to no one’s surprise, was the most reluctant, but she herself had grown weary of taking the blasted things on and off so many times a day. So a new rule was enacted, one proclaiming that at no time should there ever be just one person on deck alone. If someone had to use the head, then that person either needed to find someone else to replace them temporarily or bring their “deck partner” below. The first violation of this neoteric ordinance would invoke the old standard. So it became incumbent upon everyone to adhere to the new safety guidelines, which seemed to be followed less out of a concern for each other’s personal safety and more out of an avoidance of having to wear those terrible vests again.

  Tamara grabbed hold of the boom, using it for leverage, and swung herself into the cockpit. She glanced toward the bow where she located Abby, lying on her back in her underwear on a bath towel. This was all her sister seemed capable of doing since the inception of their voyage. While everyone else had managed to attain their “sea legs” within a week or so, Abby had been prone to seasickness from day one with virtually no improvement in her ability to keep anything down. Her days, therefore, consisted of naps, lying out, some light reading, followed by more naps until Catherine would signal the commencement of another meal.

  Josh resented Abby immensely for her lack of participation onboard deeming her worthless to the point of suggesting an alternate use for her: chum. No one, of course, found this particularly humorous, least of all Abby, whom Tamara had actually pitied. It wasn’t her fault she was so sick all of the time. Maintaining a constant state of nausea was one of the most unpleasant things Tamara could imagine and, given the option, would much prefer a long, hard day’s work to vomiting on a regular schedule.

  Tamara stood on her toes looking in the direction of her sister. “I’m going below! Josh is aft!” she yelled. Abby raised an arm weakly and gave a thumb’s up, dropping it like a dead tree limb upon signaling.

  Tamara turned and descended into the galley-salon. She could already detect the odor of sautéed garlic and beans before she reached the bottom. This, along with some bread baked on deck yesterday, would probably be lunch. Canned juice had run dry three weeks ago so powdered drinks became a permanent beverage at mealtime for those that didn’t prefer tea. Powdered milk was of limited quantity and reserved solely for the morning to pour sparingly over cereal or simply to drink.

  Peeking quickly into the galley, Tamara was surprised to discover the absence of her mother. The frying pan was resting on the burner, the food in it still sizzling despite the fact the propane had been turned off. She peered past the salon into the forward stateroom that was, in fact, not a stateroom at all. Having purchased the ship new, her father had taken it to an acquaintance and had some modifications performed on her inner workings. One of the most grandiose and, perhaps incriminating, alterations carried out was the complete gutting of the forward stateroom. Intended to be the master stateroom, her father had other plans for it, removing all bedding and head fixtures so the maximum meters cubed could be attained. In place of a bedchamber, he’d had custom shelving installed utilizing every available nook and cranny. Now, after a series of aftermarket “upgrades”, it served as the storeroom.

  Tamara saw her mother there like she had on so many a day, clipboard in hand, reviewing their dwindling supplies. She recalled with great fascination the first moment she had laid eyes upon this room, its shelves packed to capacity with foodstuffs of varying classes. It had been organized efficiently and expertly. Dry goods such as flour, rice, oats, sugar, cereals, beans and pastas had been stored in giant plastic bins on the lowest shelf below their canned and bottled counterparts, which contained, among other things, fruits, vegetables, sauces and oils, soups and juices. Adjacent to these were other food items, some with a lesser shelf life such as cured meats and fish as well as certain cheeses, but also powdered fruit drinks and milk, spices, dehydrated fruits and vegetables.

  Directly across from what became known as the “survival shelf” was the “maintenance shelf”, a veritable cornucopia of supplies and materials required for a prolonged stay at sea. Here one could find virtually anything that could be attained in a small, corner street drugstore. Very much the mini-pharmacy, it was loaded with varying pain relievers from aspirin, acetaminophen and ibuprofen to naproxen sodium. Also available were a wide array of cold, cough and flu medications, both in pill and liquid form, and a diverse selection of other helpful medicinal aids that ran the gamut from Dramamine, Gas-X and Tums to laxatives and other abdominal related meds. A small surgical kit complete with IV bags had even been provided, situated at the end of the shelving unit alongside two fire extinguishers.

  Arranged in a sizeable alcove along the bottom shelf were soaps and cleaners ranging from bar soap to shampoo to all purpose ammonia cleaners and non-chlorinated, calcite-based scrubbing cleansers. But it w
as the barrels, the “elephants in the room” as her mother called them, which bore the brunt of responsibility and became the determining factors as to how long they would actually remain adrift.

  Four fifty gallon drums of fresh drinking water had been lined against the back wall of the storeroom and served as a supplement to the other one hundred and fifty two gallons the ship was able to contain in its fresh water hold. This would serve as the lone source of drinking and cooking water, the supply being replenished on an intermittent basis with rainwater captured from above decks. But the hold had run dry weeks ago and the battle to keep the barrels filled to capacity had been a losing one marred by hot days void of rain. Catherine insisted everyone drink only what was required and no more, but that they do, in fact, drink. Hypothermia and dehydration were always at the forefront of her mind and not conditions she took lightly. But now with only two and a half barrels of fresh water to meet all of their cooking, drinking and cleaning needs, she feared water rationing might be forced upon her.

  Tamara traversed the twenty or so feet until she was standing in the narrow doorway of the ship’s pantry. “Whatcha doing?” Tamara asked, clutching either side of the doorjamb as she leaned forward into the room.

  Catherine looked up from her clipboard, pleasantly surprised. “Hey, peanut? You hungry?”

  “Starving. But for anything except beans and garlic.”

  “Ha ha,” Catherine smirked playfully, Tamara returning it in equal kind. “Can you go tell your brother and sister lunch is ready?”

  “Sure.” Tamara said, lingering in the doorway. Her eyes darted over the near-vacant shelves. “Mom?”

  “Yes, baby?”

  “Are...are we running out of food?”

  Catherine snapped her head up, all of her attention focused on her daughter. She let the clipboard fall to her side. “Why don’t you go get Josh and Abby. We’ve got some things we need to discuss.”