Swim Chapter One
by
Burnie Miller
Copyright 2010
All rights reserved
Edited by
Brittney
The man stood looking at the water for a long time. Finished his cigarette and pulled off his windbreaker, then his sweater, kicked off his boots dropped his pants and stood in the mist wearing black speedos. He could feel the gentle tingle of salt spray, he took a deep breath. The smell of the ocean, like a woman, erotic. Beautiful and mysterious, repulsive and irresistible. He reached down pulled a bottle of vaseline out of a brown paper bag. Starting with his feet carefully spreading the petroleum jelly with two fingers covered his legs then his torso arms and shoulders then Like a warrior applying the grease to his face. The man dove in. Water was cold. Matched his mood, didn’t know how long he’d be able to go before he got tired but didn’t matter. He swam with the exaggerated strokes of an open water swimmer as the moon marked the hours with her transit. The waves becoming massive swells. The man began to tire, turned over. Staring up at the fading stars. Closed his eyes relaxing completely, willing himself to sink The sea breaking over him. Kept his mouth closed. Not time yet. Gently lifted his head and took a breath. He turned floating on his stomach staring into the blackness. Far off in the depths, a glow. The man closed his eyes then opened them expecting the glow to be gone. It was still there getting brighter a few bubbles drifting up. A blackness shedding phosphorescence as it rose toward him. He waited. A dark continent rising out of the water next to him. The great whales unblinking eye watching him. He reached out, touching the whale, balancing himself against the beast with his fingertips, feeling its cool barnacle covered flesh. The whale blowing great steam pipe breaths. No questions no answers, two souls unafraid. Time passed, much was said. Then one long final whistling breath. The whale dove. Its great fluke rising above the man, disappearing beneath the waves without a ripple. The man started to swim again, the rhythmic splash of his strokes and the sound of the water chuckling in his ears. Hours passed.
He gave a grunt as his hand hit something solid. A great tree born far to the north. Escapee from a coastal logging camp. The tree didn’t move as the man pulled himself up onto the slick surface. Its massive roots raising up twenty feet away. He stood surveying the island then lay on his back cradled between two massive knots. The sun, high up but invisible in a misty sky. He lay back thinking. Just three days before getting hit with the news. Yep, it’s cancer. Terminal. Questions answers all leading to one dark conclusion. In his study seated at his massive oak desk surrounded by bookshelves and photos, he’d written long into the night. Then he kissed his wife as she lay sleeping and headed for the coast. Didn’t know how long he lay watching the scudding clouds. Fell asleep as rain squalls fell like balm on his tortured soul. Woke up, still raining. Stood and bent to scoop sweet water from a knot. Moving his cupped hand up and down quickly slurping from the pool of rain water. Drank his fill. Stretched. Stood staring out into the gloom. It was time. He felt the great tree cool slick and unyielding against his feet as he dove. The water, a cold and welcoming lover. Found his rhythm.
Hours later something bumped his leg. A twinge of fear, then anger, the man stopped swimming waited. A fin cut through the water right in front of him. He felt tingling static licking the skin of his belly and chest felt its probe deep inside, made him cough. A dolphin, he reached out and felt its rubbery flesh. It turned over one flipper poking out of the water like it was hoping for a belly rub. The man laughed up into the sky as he tread water. Hard belly laughs turning to croaking sobs. Again and again he roared out, his voice echoing across the slow marching peaks of waves to be lost in the massive silence that was the open sea. Obliging the creature, he rubbed its powerful smooth stomach.
There was only one and It stayed close. During the night the he grew tired, went into a dead mans float. Counting, then lifting his head for a breath. The dolphin floating next to him nuzzling at him from time to time as if to say “you alright? How about another scratch?” As the sun rose over the sea the man resumed swimming. Focusing on his breathing. Hours passed. Then a vibration, mechanical, pulsing, the sound of rushing water. He looked up. A ship, massive curved rust streaked bow, faces in yellow rain gear staring over the edge at him. Shouts, life preserver being thrown. The man stared at the Life preserver. Looking around. The dolphin was gone. He reached over and grabbed the life preserver allowing himself to be pulled to the side of the boat. A rusty steel ladder. The man put his feet on the first rung testing his strength getting used to the feel of rust covered steel and gravity. He climbed slow reaching the rail. Eager hands, towels, and a jug of water. He stood and faced his rescuers. Young dark bearded men, a blonde women. All of them talking at once. The man took the jug. Drank deep, water sloshing across his face and chest.
“Lets get you some food Mister.” Two of the men trying to help him walk. The man shook them off without aggression.
“It’s o.k. I can walk.” He followed them down some stairs into the galley of the small ship. Sat down at a wooden bench. Someone placed a blanket of scratchy wool across his back. A large bowl of chowder, chewy bread and a steaming mug of black coffee. The man ate slow, chewing each bite. A large man barreled into the room. White hair poking out from a greek fisherman's cap framing a ruddy weather scrubbed face. A gold Buddha on a silver chain winked from the dense white hair that poked from an open necked polo shirt. The Skipper sat across from him. Watching him eat, gesturing for the cook to bring more food. Filling his Coffee cup.
“I’m George.”
“Steve”
“How long you been in the water? We didn’t hear a Mayday.”
Steve thought. “Couple days.”
Is there anyone else?
Steve shook his head, “No.”
“We better call the coast guard.”
Without looking up from his chowder Steve mumbled, “Not necessary.”
“How did you end up out here?”
“Swam.”
“Why?”
Steve looked up, gave him a wry apologetic smile, “Aint got wings.”
“But the nearest lands fourty miles away!”
Steve stood up. “Thanks for the food, best be on my way.”
The Skipper gave a nervous laugh his ruddy face starting to flush crimson at his ungrateful guest. “But you almost died.”
“No, I’m alive.”
The Skipper recovered quick,”we’re doing thirty knots. You’ll get sucked into the screws if you try to leave before I slow this ship down for you. At least have some more food and coffee for pete sake.”
Steve thought about this. Realized the skipper was right. He sat back down at the bench and started eating again listening as the skipper told him about the ship. The Gaia had been a research vessel for NOAA for twenty years, then she’d been sold to a group of investors out of Argentina, where she had been converted to a tourist research vessel taking high paying guests to Antarctica. On one ill fated trip she’d run aground in a storm near the Falkland Islands. The paying guests and most of the crew had been airlifted to Argentina. The boats captain and a skeleton crew had brought the badly damaged ship to Manaus Brazil to be repaired. The company that owned her had neglected to keep up on her insurance payments. The Gaia had gone back to the bank. She sat for five years sinking deeper and deeper into dis-repair. The Skipper found her rotting there outside of Manaus, had gone to the bank. Made an offer. The bank had been glad to be free of her.
“It must have cost a bundle to repair her” said Steve
“I have friends in low places and we had volunteers.”
“Volunteers?”
“Many of them are the same people that are crewing her now.”
The Skipper kept talking about the Gaia, ticking off a long list of projects that had gone into making the Gaia seaworthy, his voice droning on and on. The throb of her engines like the purr of a great cat. His belly warm and full, Steve started having trouble staying awake. Then, without warning, his head toppled forward, landing squarely in his half eaten bowl of chowder. The Skipper gestured to a large mocha skinned rasta, passing through and they lifted Steve between them, and carried him to the crew quarters and a waiting bunk.
Steve woke up to the sound of a gong over a loud speaker. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and looked around. He was laying in a metal bunk. The glow of a small red light showing the outline of the door. He swung his feet over the bunk and onto cool linoleum, flicked on the light. Someone had placed clothes at the foot of his bunk, soft sweats with blue letters that spelled Gaia. He pulled them on and found they fit. There where also cotton socks. Below the Bunk a pair of rubber boots. They too fit well. Steve went in search of the restroom. The corridor, empty and dim with pipes running the length of the ceiling. He walked up some stairs to the next level and through the galley, could hear the sound of pots and pans clanging and someone singing in what sounded like Portuguese. Out on deck he could see a figure in a hooded rain suit their back to him facing into the wind. He walked over and stood beside them looking out at the ocean waves. Blue sky, a few creampuff clouds, a beautiful day.
So you woke up!
It was the blonde girl from the day before. She wasn’t as young as Steve had first thought there where lines on that baby face “Yep slept like a champ. Where’s everybody at?”
“Meditation.”
Steve digested this piece of information. “Meditation?”
“Yes, every morning and every night. Mandatory for all off duty personnel. I’m on watch or I’d be there.”
“Do you know how to meditate?” Asked the girl.
“It’s been a long time.”
“well feel free to join them it’s through the galley up the stairs to the E deck cant miss it. Two giant oak doors.”
Steve headed through the galley felt his stomach grumble as he caught the smell of cooking food, spicy lemon, curry and coconut. He found a bathroom outside the galley stopping to splash water on his face he peered into the mirror. Bloodshot green eyes framed in a grizzled salt burned face. Don’t look terminal, wonder when I’m gonna start feeling it, he thought as he headed up the metal stairs. At the E deck he found the two doors. Paused for a minute to quiet his breathing. The door swung open. Inside there were forty or fifty people all seated on small flat cushions. Most but not all sat cross legged facing the front. The room silent. Steve went to an un occupied cushion and sat. Looking around. To the front of the room was a podium above it on the wall a painting of a laughing fat Buddha like the one the Skipper wore around his neck. There where also paintings Steve recognized from other world religions, the Christ. Rama, The sign for Om. He noticed some people kneeling in the way he had seen the Muslims do facing toward what Steve guessed was Mecca.
Steve started focusing on his breathing counting as he breathed in and breathed out trying to remember how it was done from a book he had read by Paramahansa Yogananda years ago when interested in such things. His mind soon wandered he thought about his friend the dolphin. Hoped it wasn't lonely, probably out searching for a swimmer to give him a scratch. Thought about the great whale. Thought about his wife at home worried sick. Felt a twinge of guilt that this was the first he’d thought of her since the letter.
The sound of a gong echoed from loudspeakers high up on the wall. Steve opened his eyes didn’t know if he’d fallen asleep or had been meditating. People, a hodge podge of faces getting up from their cushions, the murmur of voices soft laughter.
Steve stood up and spotted the Skippers shiny white fringed head. He walked over where the skipper stood talking to a group of men and women. He looked over at Steve and gave him a nod. Steve nodded back. The Skipper went back to his conversation. Steve felt a tug at his arm a ginger haired girl with a pointy three o clock broken nose said “hi Steve, I’m Gabby. I’ve been assigned to show you around. Did you sleep well?”
“I did.” Steve said. Meaning it.
Good, she said with real enthusiasm. I bet you’re hungry, and lunch is about to be served why don't you join me. Steve followed Gabby out the doors and down to the galley. They got in line. Platters of vegetables a large bowl with steamed yams, and fish with white flaky flesh that smell of lemon and coconut.
“We’re mostly vegetarian although we supply fish too.”
“What kind of fish?”
“Tilapia, we have other types that we can catch but only if it’s a species that’s sustainable, which means not too often.”
“you actually raise this fish here?” Gabby nodded, stormy grey eyes peering over a freckled mouth full of squash, she was quite pretty once you got past the broken nose.
“Yes, fish and most of our own vegetables we’ve got an amazing greenhouse. I’ll be glad to show you when we’re done eating if you like.”
“I’d like that.” Steve said, wondering at this strange floating world that he’d found himself.
The greenhouse was in the bowels of the ship you opened a small steel door and you found yourself in a jungle. Grow lights covered the ceiling he saw plants covered with Tomatoes, Green beans, he spotted chili peppers, and what appeared to be a Spinach or Chard, and much more sitting in endless rows of black trays. Gabby showed him where the fish were grown. Two giant tanks with netting over them that kept the roiling energetic fish in the tank. Gabby waved at a pale dour looking man wearing white coveralls. “This is a complete ecosystem, the fish create waste which feeds the plants. All the left overs from the galley goes into compost. We grow worms in the compost which we grind up and mix with corn and this feeds the fish. It’s actually a bit more complicated but this isn’t my area of expertise yet. Joe over there is the big boss of food production, as well as waste management.”
“Waste management?”
“The Blackwater waste is a completely closed system zero waste other than water it comes out so clean you could drink it in a pinch. It’s used to flush the toilets, and for grey water used to wash the decks. Nasa technology, the entire system fits in a twenty by twelve room. Once a year we take the broken down sludge which is nothing more than dirt by this point and use it in the worm tank.
What kind of work did you do Steve?
Steve started to answer, stopped, thought a minute then decided. “Painter.” I’m a pretty good painter.”
“Great, painting’s a skill we can use on this ship. I’ll introduce you to Pedro, he runs the maintenance crew.”
Pedro had dark skin, was wearing a black T-shirt, his thick neck and arms covered in tattoos. Demons, birds, and skulls so real one could swear to hearing small shrieking cries coming from them. Pedro spoke fast in a clipped Southern California accent probably from the barrios of east L.A.
“So you want to work?”
Steve, nodded, “sure.”
Pedro walked over to some buckets sitting next to the rail and grabbed a scrapper. “Today we’re prepping the stern area, you can start over there on the starboard rails and work your way back, any rust or loose paint is fair game.” Pedro handed him the wood dual purpose scraper with wire bristles along the top. Steve lost himself in the magic of manual labor. The sun warming him in spite of the chill in the air, the steady thrum of the ship and nonstop beating of the wind singing, I’m here, I’m here, and I’ll never die. Soon he was whistling away.
At dinner the Skipper hunted him down. “Hi, if your not busy tonight why don't you stop by the bridge.”
“O.K. What time?”
“Anytime after 22:00.”
“I’ll be there.”
by
Burnie Miller
Copyright 2010
All rights reserved
Edited by
Brittney
The man stood looking at the water for a long time. Finished his cigarette and pulled off his windbreaker, then his sweater, kicked off his boots dropped his pants and stood in the mist wearing black speedos. He could feel the gentle tingle of salt spray, he took a deep breath. The smell of the ocean, like a woman, erotic. Beautiful and mysterious, repulsive and irresistible. He reached down pulled a bottle of vaseline out of a brown paper bag. Starting with his feet carefully spreading the petroleum jelly with two fingers covered his legs then his torso arms and shoulders then Like a warrior applying the grease to his face. The man dove in. Water was cold. Matched his mood, didn’t know how long he’d be able to go before he got tired but didn’t matter. He swam with the exaggerated strokes of an open water swimmer as the moon marked the hours with her transit. The waves becoming massive swells. The man began to tire, turned over. Staring up at the fading stars. Closed his eyes relaxing completely, willing himself to sink The sea breaking over him. Kept his mouth closed. Not time yet. Gently lifted his head and took a breath. He turned floating on his stomach staring into the blackness. Far off in the depths, a glow. The man closed his eyes then opened them expecting the glow to be gone. It was still there getting brighter a few bubbles drifting up. A blackness shedding phosphorescence as it rose toward him. He waited. A dark continent rising out of the water next to him. The great whales unblinking eye watching him. He reached out, touching the whale, balancing himself against the beast with his fingertips, feeling its cool barnacle covered flesh. The whale blowing great steam pipe breaths. No questions no answers, two souls unafraid. Time passed, much was said. Then one long final whistling breath. The whale dove. Its great fluke rising above the man, disappearing beneath the waves without a ripple. The man started to swim again, the rhythmic splash of his strokes and the sound of the water chuckling in his ears. Hours passed.
He gave a grunt as his hand hit something solid. A great tree born far to the north. Escapee from a coastal logging camp. The tree didn’t move as the man pulled himself up onto the slick surface. Its massive roots raising up twenty feet away. He stood surveying the island then lay on his back cradled between two massive knots. The sun, high up but invisible in a misty sky. He lay back thinking. Just three days before getting hit with the news. Yep, it’s cancer. Terminal. Questions answers all leading to one dark conclusion. In his study seated at his massive oak desk surrounded by bookshelves and photos, he’d written long into the night. Then he kissed his wife as she lay sleeping and headed for the coast. Didn’t know how long he lay watching the scudding clouds. Fell asleep as rain squalls fell like balm on his tortured soul. Woke up, still raining. Stood and bent to scoop sweet water from a knot. Moving his cupped hand up and down quickly slurping from the pool of rain water. Drank his fill. Stretched. Stood staring out into the gloom. It was time. He felt the great tree cool slick and unyielding against his feet as he dove. The water, a cold and welcoming lover. Found his rhythm.
Hours later something bumped his leg. A twinge of fear, then anger, the man stopped swimming waited. A fin cut through the water right in front of him. He felt tingling static licking the skin of his belly and chest felt its probe deep inside, made him cough. A dolphin, he reached out and felt its rubbery flesh. It turned over one flipper poking out of the water like it was hoping for a belly rub. The man laughed up into the sky as he tread water. Hard belly laughs turning to croaking sobs. Again and again he roared out, his voice echoing across the slow marching peaks of waves to be lost in the massive silence that was the open sea. Obliging the creature, he rubbed its powerful smooth stomach.
There was only one and It stayed close. During the night the he grew tired, went into a dead mans float. Counting, then lifting his head for a breath. The dolphin floating next to him nuzzling at him from time to time as if to say “you alright? How about another scratch?” As the sun rose over the sea the man resumed swimming. Focusing on his breathing. Hours passed. Then a vibration, mechanical, pulsing, the sound of rushing water. He looked up. A ship, massive curved rust streaked bow, faces in yellow rain gear staring over the edge at him. Shouts, life preserver being thrown. The man stared at the Life preserver. Looking around. The dolphin was gone. He reached over and grabbed the life preserver allowing himself to be pulled to the side of the boat. A rusty steel ladder. The man put his feet on the first rung testing his strength getting used to the feel of rust covered steel and gravity. He climbed slow reaching the rail. Eager hands, towels, and a jug of water. He stood and faced his rescuers. Young dark bearded men, a blonde women. All of them talking at once. The man took the jug. Drank deep, water sloshing across his face and chest.
“Lets get you some food Mister.” Two of the men trying to help him walk. The man shook them off without aggression.
“It’s o.k. I can walk.” He followed them down some stairs into the galley of the small ship. Sat down at a wooden bench. Someone placed a blanket of scratchy wool across his back. A large bowl of chowder, chewy bread and a steaming mug of black coffee. The man ate slow, chewing each bite. A large man barreled into the room. White hair poking out from a greek fisherman's cap framing a ruddy weather scrubbed face. A gold Buddha on a silver chain winked from the dense white hair that poked from an open necked polo shirt. The Skipper sat across from him. Watching him eat, gesturing for the cook to bring more food. Filling his Coffee cup.
“I’m George.”
“Steve”
“How long you been in the water? We didn’t hear a Mayday.”
Steve thought. “Couple days.”
Is there anyone else?
Steve shook his head, “No.”
“We better call the coast guard.”
Without looking up from his chowder Steve mumbled, “Not necessary.”
“How did you end up out here?”
“Swam.”
“Why?”
Steve looked up, gave him a wry apologetic smile, “Aint got wings.”
“But the nearest lands fourty miles away!”
Steve stood up. “Thanks for the food, best be on my way.”
The Skipper gave a nervous laugh his ruddy face starting to flush crimson at his ungrateful guest. “But you almost died.”
“No, I’m alive.”
The Skipper recovered quick,”we’re doing thirty knots. You’ll get sucked into the screws if you try to leave before I slow this ship down for you. At least have some more food and coffee for pete sake.”
Steve thought about this. Realized the skipper was right. He sat back down at the bench and started eating again listening as the skipper told him about the ship. The Gaia had been a research vessel for NOAA for twenty years, then she’d been sold to a group of investors out of Argentina, where she had been converted to a tourist research vessel taking high paying guests to Antarctica. On one ill fated trip she’d run aground in a storm near the Falkland Islands. The paying guests and most of the crew had been airlifted to Argentina. The boats captain and a skeleton crew had brought the badly damaged ship to Manaus Brazil to be repaired. The company that owned her had neglected to keep up on her insurance payments. The Gaia had gone back to the bank. She sat for five years sinking deeper and deeper into dis-repair. The Skipper found her rotting there outside of Manaus, had gone to the bank. Made an offer. The bank had been glad to be free of her.
“It must have cost a bundle to repair her” said Steve
“I have friends in low places and we had volunteers.”
“Volunteers?”
“Many of them are the same people that are crewing her now.”
The Skipper kept talking about the Gaia, ticking off a long list of projects that had gone into making the Gaia seaworthy, his voice droning on and on. The throb of her engines like the purr of a great cat. His belly warm and full, Steve started having trouble staying awake. Then, without warning, his head toppled forward, landing squarely in his half eaten bowl of chowder. The Skipper gestured to a large mocha skinned rasta, passing through and they lifted Steve between them, and carried him to the crew quarters and a waiting bunk.
Steve woke up to the sound of a gong over a loud speaker. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and looked around. He was laying in a metal bunk. The glow of a small red light showing the outline of the door. He swung his feet over the bunk and onto cool linoleum, flicked on the light. Someone had placed clothes at the foot of his bunk, soft sweats with blue letters that spelled Gaia. He pulled them on and found they fit. There where also cotton socks. Below the Bunk a pair of rubber boots. They too fit well. Steve went in search of the restroom. The corridor, empty and dim with pipes running the length of the ceiling. He walked up some stairs to the next level and through the galley, could hear the sound of pots and pans clanging and someone singing in what sounded like Portuguese. Out on deck he could see a figure in a hooded rain suit their back to him facing into the wind. He walked over and stood beside them looking out at the ocean waves. Blue sky, a few creampuff clouds, a beautiful day.
So you woke up!
It was the blonde girl from the day before. She wasn’t as young as Steve had first thought there where lines on that baby face “Yep slept like a champ. Where’s everybody at?”
“Meditation.”
Steve digested this piece of information. “Meditation?”
“Yes, every morning and every night. Mandatory for all off duty personnel. I’m on watch or I’d be there.”
“Do you know how to meditate?” Asked the girl.
“It’s been a long time.”
“well feel free to join them it’s through the galley up the stairs to the E deck cant miss it. Two giant oak doors.”
Steve headed through the galley felt his stomach grumble as he caught the smell of cooking food, spicy lemon, curry and coconut. He found a bathroom outside the galley stopping to splash water on his face he peered into the mirror. Bloodshot green eyes framed in a grizzled salt burned face. Don’t look terminal, wonder when I’m gonna start feeling it, he thought as he headed up the metal stairs. At the E deck he found the two doors. Paused for a minute to quiet his breathing. The door swung open. Inside there were forty or fifty people all seated on small flat cushions. Most but not all sat cross legged facing the front. The room silent. Steve went to an un occupied cushion and sat. Looking around. To the front of the room was a podium above it on the wall a painting of a laughing fat Buddha like the one the Skipper wore around his neck. There where also paintings Steve recognized from other world religions, the Christ. Rama, The sign for Om. He noticed some people kneeling in the way he had seen the Muslims do facing toward what Steve guessed was Mecca.
Steve started focusing on his breathing counting as he breathed in and breathed out trying to remember how it was done from a book he had read by Paramahansa Yogananda years ago when interested in such things. His mind soon wandered he thought about his friend the dolphin. Hoped it wasn't lonely, probably out searching for a swimmer to give him a scratch. Thought about the great whale. Thought about his wife at home worried sick. Felt a twinge of guilt that this was the first he’d thought of her since the letter.
The sound of a gong echoed from loudspeakers high up on the wall. Steve opened his eyes didn’t know if he’d fallen asleep or had been meditating. People, a hodge podge of faces getting up from their cushions, the murmur of voices soft laughter.
Steve stood up and spotted the Skippers shiny white fringed head. He walked over where the skipper stood talking to a group of men and women. He looked over at Steve and gave him a nod. Steve nodded back. The Skipper went back to his conversation. Steve felt a tug at his arm a ginger haired girl with a pointy three o clock broken nose said “hi Steve, I’m Gabby. I’ve been assigned to show you around. Did you sleep well?”
“I did.” Steve said. Meaning it.
Good, she said with real enthusiasm. I bet you’re hungry, and lunch is about to be served why don't you join me. Steve followed Gabby out the doors and down to the galley. They got in line. Platters of vegetables a large bowl with steamed yams, and fish with white flaky flesh that smell of lemon and coconut.
“We’re mostly vegetarian although we supply fish too.”
“What kind of fish?”
“Tilapia, we have other types that we can catch but only if it’s a species that’s sustainable, which means not too often.”
“you actually raise this fish here?” Gabby nodded, stormy grey eyes peering over a freckled mouth full of squash, she was quite pretty once you got past the broken nose.
“Yes, fish and most of our own vegetables we’ve got an amazing greenhouse. I’ll be glad to show you when we’re done eating if you like.”
“I’d like that.” Steve said, wondering at this strange floating world that he’d found himself.
The greenhouse was in the bowels of the ship you opened a small steel door and you found yourself in a jungle. Grow lights covered the ceiling he saw plants covered with Tomatoes, Green beans, he spotted chili peppers, and what appeared to be a Spinach or Chard, and much more sitting in endless rows of black trays. Gabby showed him where the fish were grown. Two giant tanks with netting over them that kept the roiling energetic fish in the tank. Gabby waved at a pale dour looking man wearing white coveralls. “This is a complete ecosystem, the fish create waste which feeds the plants. All the left overs from the galley goes into compost. We grow worms in the compost which we grind up and mix with corn and this feeds the fish. It’s actually a bit more complicated but this isn’t my area of expertise yet. Joe over there is the big boss of food production, as well as waste management.”
“Waste management?”
“The Blackwater waste is a completely closed system zero waste other than water it comes out so clean you could drink it in a pinch. It’s used to flush the toilets, and for grey water used to wash the decks. Nasa technology, the entire system fits in a twenty by twelve room. Once a year we take the broken down sludge which is nothing more than dirt by this point and use it in the worm tank.
What kind of work did you do Steve?
Steve started to answer, stopped, thought a minute then decided. “Painter.” I’m a pretty good painter.”
“Great, painting’s a skill we can use on this ship. I’ll introduce you to Pedro, he runs the maintenance crew.”
Pedro had dark skin, was wearing a black T-shirt, his thick neck and arms covered in tattoos. Demons, birds, and skulls so real one could swear to hearing small shrieking cries coming from them. Pedro spoke fast in a clipped Southern California accent probably from the barrios of east L.A.
“So you want to work?”
Steve, nodded, “sure.”
Pedro walked over to some buckets sitting next to the rail and grabbed a scrapper. “Today we’re prepping the stern area, you can start over there on the starboard rails and work your way back, any rust or loose paint is fair game.” Pedro handed him the wood dual purpose scraper with wire bristles along the top. Steve lost himself in the magic of manual labor. The sun warming him in spite of the chill in the air, the steady thrum of the ship and nonstop beating of the wind singing, I’m here, I’m here, and I’ll never die. Soon he was whistling away.
At dinner the Skipper hunted him down. “Hi, if your not busy tonight why don't you stop by the bridge.”
“O.K. What time?”
“Anytime after 22:00.”
“I’ll be there.”
If you'd like to share some constructive thoughts, or read more chapters from Swim, shoot me an Email: [email protected]: Thanks Burnie