ch:12 Words (10 chapters further along in the book's storyline from Seadawg)
With the dawn, the winds slacked off and the swells calmed, but the fog stayed thick until near noon. Visions of phosphorescent seas in the night haunted Seadawg while boiling water for tea—coffee just a soggy memory from rogue wave mayhem four days earlier—made bearable with a dollop of schlibivitz to sweeten the brew. When really desperate to stay awake, he used red pepper; tough on the guts, maybe, but sure did the job.
“Just beyond Landsend lookout there,” singing to sing to stay alert. Eagle eye sweeping the field-of-vision; currently disappearing from view regularly half of every minute, becoming an imminent close green-water zoom through the trough. The sun broke through the cloud cover just in time for taking a noon sight. Eight degrees south of where he'd been six days ago. Poor chronometer was belly up again from too much salt. Off the chart for sure and he's shuffling through the chart chest, still singing: “Lady for sure . . . goddess so pure . . . scanning, beckoning statue of stone . . . in moonlight heroic she glistens . . . siren calling little nobody me . . . work in my little boat . . . and helps us home in the storm . . . lost in motion, survive in the ocean . . . '
Song born of story, water, stone, and visions of statue appearing then dissolving in endless loops of repeat. When need arrived, near and dear—like a rock—she was there to see that at least, you'd almost arrived safe again from the sea and were welcome, friend and stranger alike.
Things began to quiet down. Ever so slightly at first, then noticeably on the sixth night. Sea anchor out and bungees on the wheel, he collapsed in another heap to sleep the next twelve hours. Six days of such a storm can make you lose track and leave you seeing things that maybe weren't there . . .
He had asked himself a thousand times, 'All this water and no place to go, did I sign up for this?' Each time the unavoidable answer came back just too loud and clear: 'Yes you did, silly boy.' Peoples navy was peoples navy. Long as he ever knew, he was waterborne, waterworn, and weathering nicely now, ha ha, in all this . . .
'Don't stretch yourself, son. Probably more frying pan before you're out of this fire. Gonna need all the reserves you can muster, buster,' Father Time urging and egging as usual.
'Should have beefed up that weak link on Otto's chain. Damn. Well, hell: done it before,' grim determination gulped and sweated. 'If I get back, I'm gonna try farming.'
Most boat people have their land and farm dream. Seadawg had his. It didn't bother him much. He had seen other salamanders swallow the hook and try to sink roots. Some made it fair enough. For whayever unknown reasons, others went back out. Life ashore seemed such a bore; lifeless by compare with the endless motion of seaborne challenge, as well as its shocks. He and the sea got along. As long as he stayed humble and respectful, it gave a bit. Relented just enough to make one of toughest of lives possible, and even bearable enough so that full time? or part time? were out of the question. In his well-watered world, it was—he was—all time. Afloat a boat, adrift; so tiny in the face of such immeasurable immensity.
Had his faith been misplaced, or was this something mostly beyond his control? Long conversations would ensue in years to come, arguing yea ot nay? It was hard to budge from this belief though he couldn't prove the invisible with mere words. And what does one know of instinct and heredity? And why did the siren song suddenly have words? The dazzling and radiant dance of eerie lights in the night had bemused him, and the dream had left him singing words! Whoa, my boy, what is this all saying?
Wind veering as it dwindled, left him less time to ponder such intangibles and he began shaping a new link for the broken autopilot chain; drilling holes and hacksawing notches in one-inch steel rod, grinding sides flat and now, filing it the last few thousandths of an inch needed to make the fit—no easy chore in pitching rolling lurching tumble.
Inch by inch the sprayline crawled back toward normal. Afternoon brought calmer seas. Fuel was short, so sails were hung and the wind being easterly, he headed north on the starboard tack. The ocean's southerly drift mostly canceled out froward success, but pointed homeward again gave the much-needed illusion of progress in the right direction.
A very welcome sun warmed things right up while getting the chain riveted and back on its sprocket. Although Ruff's compass was screwy, he could still hook up and use Otto until landfall. Stressed by Taku, more little things were piling up in some sort of convoluted conspiracy to thwart his resolve to fish a few more years. Some thing had to give eventually and his list of doubts was expanding. Ruff was still sound enough. Just the ever demanding machinery was becoming the burden. The bugaboo nightmare of major overhauling loomed and he had yet to earn the money for all needed repairs. Would swing it somehow. Always had; but was dreaming, 'Small farm; upriver somewhere . . . Ruff could trade for a tractor and truck . . . fencing and barn lumber.'
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