by Weston Ochse
Aaron had pitched the article to his editor as part ecological study, part exploration of maritime folklore. The fishing industry had been on its way out since the late 2020s and no one was interested in a profile on sailors who were too stubborn to accept that fish had been driven to the brink of extinction. It was too depressing and it was hardly a mystery. People knew the reasons. Greed, pollution, shifts in the food chain. But the tall tales held some mystique. Even if people thought it was bullshit, they’d still be interested. It was just the way people were. They didn’t believe, but they wanted to. And so did Aaron.
The trawler slowly moved along the outer edge of the reef, keeping a wide berth. Aaron had asked where they were headed, but the men wouldn’t give him more than noncommittal grumbles about good fishing along the northern rim. He tried to press them for more than that, but they were tight-lipped. It was part of the centuries old sailor’s code. Never divulge your secrets to the competition. He wasn’t planning to come out here and steal their fish of course, but Captain Markovic had been very clear that the article had to be vague on latitude and longitude.
He passed the time by pacing the deck, listening and watching and waiting. Overhead, sea birds glided on the salt air, occasionally darting down to land on the radio antenna. Men smoked cigarettes and played cards on a wooden crate, talking of home and girlfriends and wives and children they only saw two months out of the year. It was peaceful out here. Even if they rarely caught anything, the sea was more of a home to them than dry land.
“Hey, Oliveira.”
Aaron turned around to see the first mate, Dimitriou, standing behind him. The man was big and knotted from years of hauling in heavy lines, his right bicep bearing a small tattoo that Aaron had seen on some of the other crewmen. At first glance it resembled a crucifix, but the general shape was made out of fish, and in the center (where a crucified Jesus would have been) there was a jellyfish, its tentacles coiled around the crosspieces. Aaron tried not to stare. Some of the men didn’t like it. But Dimitriou was one of the friendlier ones, his expression holding an almost perpetual softness.
“What’s up?” Aaron asked.
“The Captain wants to see you.”
“Did he say what it’s about?”
Dimitriou shrugged his massive shoulders. “He just said to get Oliveira.”
Aaron smiled and pulled his laptop bag up onto his shoulder. “Thanks. Tell him I’ll be right there.”
Dimitriou walked back to the bridge slowly, making no effort to exert himself in the midday-heat. Aaron hurried below deck and went to his cabin to grab his flash recorder. He had a feeling Markovic was about to give him the big (or small) interview and he wanted to be ready.
Topside, he nearly ran into a skinny deckhand named Crudele, receiving a “fuck you” and a scowl as he made his way to the bridge. He quickly ascended the stairs and ducked through the open door.
The bridge was shaded and cool, filled with crisscrossing currents of air driven by fans bolted to the wall. Captain Markovic stood at the radar console, holding a cup of coffee.
“You wanted to see me, Captain?”
Markovic turned to look at him, managing a smile that was closer to a sneer. “Come on over here, Oliveira. Today’s a good day to talk.”
Aaron pulled out the flash recorder and aimed the microphone toward Markovic, consciously trying to angle it low enough to keep from being intrusive.
“So where would you like to start? With your first command?”
Markovic looked unimpressed. “You know people don’t really give a shit about that.”
“Sure, they do. It’s good background.”
“Right. How about we just cut to the part where you ask me what you really wanted to ask?”
Aaron nodded slowly. Markovic was more shrewd than he’d realized.
“Tell me about the Gyre Giant.”
Markovic laughed. “Is that what people are calling it?”
“Well, that’s just one of the names I’ve heard. But I was going to use that one for the article.”
The Captain shook his head, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. “Sounds too cheesy. Nobody’s gonna read that.”
“Okay. Which name should I use? The Deep One? The Kraken? Tidal Tim? The Undertower? Everyone I’ve talked to calls it something different.”
“Sure. And they make it sound like a profession wrestler.”
“I guess so. But...well, what do you call it?”
Markovic shrugged. “Usually I don’t call it anything. You fall in love with someone, you don’t even think about their name half the time. You just see them. You feel them. Same when something scares you.”
“Does it scare you?”
Markovic let out a rasping cough that told of years of cigarettes. “No. He doesn’t scare me. Actually, I love him a little bit. I admire him. He’s just doing what nature intended.”
“So, let me get this straight. You believe it’s a he. And he’s just...what? Something you don’t mind having around?”
“Oh no. Sometimes I hate the bastard. He’s eating most of our fish. But like I said, that’s just who he is. And I don’t know if he’s a he or she or both. I just think of him as a he.”
“And can you describe him?”
Markovic held up a hand. “Now hold on. Don’t get ahead of yourself. You haven’t even told me what you’ve heard.”
“Well, I’m more interested in what you’ve heard, Captain.”
A sly grin spread across Markovic’s leathery face. “Humor me, Oliveira.”
Aaron let out a deep breath and turned to look out through the windows at the flat gray-blue stretch of water ahead of them.
“People talk about there being some kind of monster out there. Something that sinks ships and kills sailors and eats sharks whole. That kind of thing.”
“And you think it’s bullshit.”
“It’s my job to be skeptical.”
“So why come out here then? You could Google sea monsters and write the article at home.”
“It’s not the same.”
“No, but there’s no point in hitching a ride on a ship if you know it’s all just made up.”
“I guess I wanted to look someone in the face as they talked about it, to see if they believed it.”
“And do they? The others you’ve talked to, I mean.”
“Some of them do, I think. I know the Captains usually do.”
“But you think there’s a difference between what they think they saw and what they really saw.”
“Yeah. I do.”
“Too many hours at sea. Cabin fever. The mind playing tricks.”
“Something like that.”
“Hell, I don’t blame you. You spend enough time out here, you think some strange things. Being alone does that. But then, sometimes you just see something and you know it’s real.”
“But how could you be sure?”
“Oh, you doubt yourself sometimes. You think there’s no way you saw it because something like that can’t exist. You think it’s those stories you heard getting to you. Not enough sleep maybe. But sometimes you just know. You see it and it’s not a glimpse. Something you could write off as your eyes playing tricks on you. No, you get a good look. A long look. And the longer you look, the more sure you are. It’s real and you’re seeing it and it doesn’t matter that it’s unbelievable. You know it exists.”
Aaron double checked the flash recorder to make sure it was still running. He wanted to quote that word for word, use it in the first paragraph of the article.
“What else can you tell me about him?” he asked.
“We call him Old Simba.”
“Simba? Isn’t that from a cartoon?”
Markovic shook his head. “I’m not sure. That’s just what people called him when I first heard about him.”
“Yeah. It is. Some kind of musical. I don’t know. It came out maybe 60, 70 years ago. Simba was a lion.”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I think I
remember that.”
“Why would they name him after a lion though?”
“No idea. It’s probably just one of those things. Someone started calling him that and the name just stuck.”
“So he doesn’t look like a lion at all, I take it.”
“No.”
“But you did get a good enough look to tell me.”
“Oh yeah. More than once. Me and Old Simba are practically friends at this point.”
“When was the first time you saw him?”
Markovic looked out at the water, taking a moment to find words to match his thoughts.
“I guess it must have been about thirty years ago. My first voyage. I was maybe 18, 19. It was a swordfishing boat. We were a couple hundred miles south of Tahiti. Calm seas. Good visibility. I was up on deck, baiting hooks. And...I don’t really know how anyone could have missed it. We weren’t going more than ten knots, but the boat just stopped dead. I got thrown down onto the deck. Felt this sharp pain, looked up and saw the hook I’d been holding stuck in my palm. Someone tried to help me up and then someone else started shouting that we had men in water. I got up and saw them over the port side. Guy named Siddons and...I can’t remember the other one’s name. Young kid. Younger than me. Maybe 16. Then I saw this cargo container floating just above water, one corner stabbed into the hull.
“Siddons and the kid were treading water trying to climb back up on deck. The first mate and the Captain came down from the bridge to help out. We lowered a rope into the water. Siddons was climbing up first. The kid was behind him. And then he wasn’t. He didn’t sink. Not the way people do. I mean, he was pulled down. Above the water, then poof. Underwater. Siddons let go of the rope and tried to get to him, but then he saw it. We all did. Just under the water, almost as big as the ship. It happened quick though. He tried to swim back, grabbed onto the rope, but he wasn’t strong enough to hold on. The rope was ripped right out of his hands. Then he was gone. And that’s when the Captain told me about Old Simba.”
For a moment, Aaron felt something close to fear, imagining it just as Markovic had described it, his mind filling in the gaps, allowing his disbelief to be suspended just long enough to believe it and scare himself for actually believing.
But it wasn’t true. Of course it wasn’t. Two men are killed by an undertow or a shark, and a young sailor (with help from a few imaginative shipmates) tells himself it was an actual sea monster out of a Jules Verne novel.
“You don’t believe me,” Markovic said.
Aaron stopped recording. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just...I don’t know. It’s a hard thing to believe. There are other possible explanations.”
“If you saw him, you would though.”
“Maybe. But I’d still have to rule everything else out. And I’m guessing sea monsters don’t just appear whenever you want them to.”
“Oh no, Mr. Oliveira. Old Simba is very reliable. I can promise you we’ll see him soon.”
“But how can you know that?”
Markovic nodded toward the water. “He likes to hang out around the north rim. Don’t ask me why. But whenever we head up that way, it’s not too long before we see him.”
“I thought the fishing was good up there.”
“The fishing is shit, there and everywhere else. Old Simba takes the lion’s share. He’s got a real appetite.”
“So why not kill him?”
Markovic laughed. “I’m no Ahab. Besides, don’t think people haven’t tried. He’s been around at least forty years and he’s still going strong.”
Aaron started to record again. He was missing good stuff.
“So you’re telling me, he can’t be killed.”
“No idea. I’m just saying no one’s succeeded.”
“You realize that sounds pretty far-fetched, right? Not only a sea monster, but one that nobody else but a few fishermen believe in.”
“I don’t expect anyone to believe it, that’s why the only websites that mention it also claim gray aliens are fallen angels and Hurricane Stella was man-made in order to destroy Miami to prevent them from winning their bid to host the 2052 Summer Olympics. But you wanted proof. So I’m going to show you.”
***
An odd hush had fallen over the crew.
For the last two hours, Aaron had been sitting in a shaded corner, watching the men work on deck, their laughter and conversations gradually tapering off into nothing but the occasional grumble of acknowledgement as they reeled in the nets and secured them. He wondered if they believed it, too. If the sea monster stories were some great superstition that haunted them whenever they approached this spot in the vast emptiness of the ocean.
Occasionally, Crudele walked by and stopped to look at him, as if sizing him up and calculating the perfect moment to pounce on him and start hitting.
“Can I help you?” Aaron asked.
Crudele stared in silence for a moment and then ran a hand over his forehead to wipe away the sweat. As he lowered it again, Aaron saw a tattoo poking out from under his sleeve. Another cross.
Slowly, the sun arced across the blue dome sky and moved westward toward the horizon. Aaron got up and walked to the bow, finding a good spot to watch the sunset and take a few photos. As the light faded and the sky darkened, he spotted what looked like ships a few miles out, a convoy of some sort.
He tried to get a picture, but a combination of extreme zoom and the moving sea caused each shot to blur heavily.
He slipped the camera back into his shoulder bag and started to pace the deck impatiently. All the waiting was starting to seem pointless. He’d spoken to the captain more than five hours ago and still there was nothing. No big revelation that was supposed to make him a true believer in a myth that was most likely bullshit.
He went aft and found Dimitriou smoking by the hatch leading to the cargo hold.
“Can I ask you something?” Aaron said.
“Sure, Mr. Oliveira. Of course.”
“I talked to the Captain earlier. He said we’re heading to the north rim so he could show me something.”
“Oh yeah. We’ll be there soon. He really wants you to see.”
“So you’ve seen it, too. Or him, I guess.”
“All of us have seen him. You will, too. I promise. I know it sounds like it’s made up, but it isn’t. First time I heard about it, I thought they were playing a joke. Hazing the new guy. But no. They showed me. It’s all true.”
Aaron searched Dimitriou’s face for some hint of a lie, but he couldn’t find any. The man struck him as slightly dumb, but not dishonest. It was something about the innocence in his face, as if he couldn’t lie and being asked to would hurt him deeply.
“Let me ask you something else then,” Aaron said. “What’s with the tattoo?”
Dimitriou looked down at his bicep, as if he’d forgotten what it looked like. “This?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, nobody told you yet?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s – ”
“Hey!” a voice shouted from behind them.
Aaron turned back to see Crudele standing on the stairs, his mouth stretched into an angry frown.
“Captain wants you on the bridge.”
Dimitriou started to get up.
“Not you, dumb ass. Oliveira.”
Aaron shook his head and followed Crudele up the steps. At the door to the bridge, the fisherman refused to completely step out of the way, looking Aaron in the eye as he tried to squeeze past.
“Soon,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
Crudele turned away and walked down the steps. Aaron frowned, still wondering what he’d done to piss the guy off so much.
Markovic stood on the bridge, his wrinkled features illuminated from beneath by the green glow of the radar screen. There was a bottle of bourbon sitting on top of the console, along with two glasses.
“You wanted to see me, Captain?”
“Here,” Marvokic sai
d, holding out a glass. “Have a drink.”
“I’m not much of a drinker.”
“Humor me.”
Aaron took the glass and sipped it. The bourbon burned all the way down and tingled in his stomach.
“Ten years old,” Markovic said. “The good stuff.”
“I guess so.”
“Sorry. I meant to call you up here earlier. I should have told you that it would be awhile. We have to keep it under fifteen knots out here because of the debris, especially at night. You rupture the hull or get steel cables caught up in the propellor and there’s not a lot you can do.”
“You think it’ll be tomorrow?”
Markovic shook his head and took a drink. “No. It’ll just be a few minutes. It’s right over there.”
Aaron looked out and saw the convoy of ships, each lit up now, their flickering reflections mirrored by the water.
“What is that?”
“Some friends of ours. I radioed ahead. It’s safer if we stay in a group.”
“Safer?”
Markovic smiled. “I told you what he can do. Do you want to see him or not?”
“Yeah.”
“Then relax. Have another drink. You’re gonna need to be calm for this.”
Before Aaron could protest, Markovic filled his glass halfway to the top. He hesitated before taking a sip and then forced himself to swallow, fighting to hold back a cough.
“See?” Markovic said. “A couple more of those and it’s smooth sailing.”
Aaron cleared his throat, squinting tears out of his eyes. “I’m fine for now. Thanks.”
Markovic tipped his glass back. He was still working on the first one, in no hurry.
“Let me ask you something, Oliveira. Sorry if it’s a little personal.”
“What is it?”
Markovic looked at him for a moment, studying him from up and down. “Do you believe in God?”
“Um...I’m not sure. I was raised Catholic, but we didn’t really go to church much.”
Markovic took a drink. “My old man didn’t believe in church. Believed in God though. He always told me I’d meet him one day.”