Short Stories, Writing

Windless Sea – Short Story

The winds no longer bashed my sails. Perhaps journeying alone had been a mistake. I never considered I was being rash, just that I was going on a grand adventure. Two weeks with no wind. Buying a yacht and sailing across the Pacific Ocean, I said it would be the best experience of my life.

The extra reserves of food and water made the situation less dire, but I was bored and lonely and the food wouldn’t last forever. If only I’d had someone to talk to. Even a mythical mermaid that would drag me down to the ocean to feast upon my flesh would be okay.

The yacht creaked and the waves splashed softly against the bow. The sun heated my face and I stripped down to my shorts and a sleeveless shirt.

I sat at the radio for a time, and there was no reply to my pleas for help. Soon, I would be out of food and water, and then what?

On the deck, I watched the occasional sea life greet the surface of the ocean. The squelching of wet boots upon the deck made me spin around. A man with old rags for clothes and long brown hair with a beard to match walked on up to me.

“A little late, ain’t ya?” The man sat down at the edge of the yacht and emptied the water from his boots.

“Late for which part, my arrival home, my meeting you, or late in figuring out what to do with my life?”

“I am not sure. Tis just something I say. Maybe I should change my catchphrase.”

“Nobody questioned it before? What are you?”

“They were too scared, I s’pose. The name’s Davy Jones, I be takin’ yer life, and yer ship now.”

“What’s my life worth?”

Surely, I could give him something, anything. My wealth, my villa, ships full of people, virgin women. There had to be something he wanted.

“Worth? A life is worth a life. Lives ain’t worth any more or less than each other.”

“So, if I bring you a life, I can live?”

“Nah.”

I guess there was no bartering with a man who had taken thousands of lives and hundreds of ships with him to his locker. I would die, without ever truly living.

The space around the man who proclaimed himself as the great Davy Jones decayed. The decay spread across the deck until I felt it sink and heard the water fill the rooms below.

“What kind of a place is Davy Jones’ Locker?”

“M’ locker? Tis a beautiful thing. Full of men and women just lookin’ at having fun. Death hasn’t stopped ’em from enjoyin’ ’emselves.”

Maybe death isn’t that bad then. My body joined my yacht in the decent to the Locker, deep beneath the ocean’s waters. My lungs filled with water, the compression of the water crushed my body, and I woke on a beach amongst a bunch of pirates and sailors.

“Look at ‘im ‘e’s a fish out o’ water!” A rough-looking man slapped me on the back.

I coughed up an entire lung of seawater. This life, this afterlife, will take some getting used to.

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