Jack checked his remaining bottom time and huffed his displeasure through his regulator. He had only enough air for another fifteen minutes, according to his dive computer. “Twenty minutes really,” he thought, based on the hundreds of hours he had breathed compressed air. The missing instrument buoy, adrift under the artic ice, was nowhere to be found. The buoy had been inflated to suspend the instrument cage thirty feet deep, a depth that helped conserve his air supply while he searched.

The ice ceiling, decorated with puddles of his expired air, admitted blue light from the brilliant topside sun, permitting forty feet of visibility. He was not cold yet, except the exposed skin between his mask and regulator, easy to ignore. The thick thermal dive garment, protected by the neoprene seals of the dry suit, kept his limbs and trunk warm. His hands and feet were chilly but not excessively uncomfortable.

“Too bad I couldn’t ask Bill to come too,” he reflected. His dive buddy always appreciated the stern beauty of the underside of the ice. Jack was aware he was in violation of the Academy’s safety procedures by diving alone, but he disregarded that objection as he did all rules put in place to obstruct him. The instrument buoy was loose because his cold-stiffened hands had not tied the tether properly. He had to find it before anybody else discovered it was gone. The whole point of the Academy’s expedition was to measure the extent climate change has damaged the sea ice, and the instrumentation was too valuable to lose casually. He had to retrieve the equipment and get himself back to camp before anybody noticed he was away.

Jack’s disregard for procedure was barely tolerated among the research team. The Chief had threatened to fire him if he didn’t learn to cooperate, but Jack figured that was just another risk he had to take. All of them were deeply committed to the research, Jack realized that, but how bitterly he resented the scientific community’s habit of slow motion nit picking. He paused, distracted for a moment, to watch a big artic cod swim past. He smiled around the regulator, deeply moved by the beauty and fragility of the environment. He wanted passionately to save this world, despite the hassle of Academy procedures.

One rule Jack fully intended to comply with: to surface through his entry hole, before his air ran out. The ice formed a ceiling requiring power tools to break. He had entered through a seal’s breathing hole, enlarged with a pickax so that his bulky gear would fit through. Reluctantly, he began gathering the lightweight line floating behind him to follow back to the entry. He had not kept particular track of his compass bearing or counted his kicks, knowing he was tethered with a lifeline to return to his starting point. He reeled the line back onto the spool, waiting for it to begin to tighten up. He was surprised to see the fifty-foot marker come to him so quickly. “I know I’m farther out than that,” he thought. Then the end of the line came into visibility, crampon and all.

“I'm afraid we salvaged a little more than we bargained for,” said the first mate as he led captain Jak to the storage deck.

“It had an intact cargo?” asked Jak, hopefully.

“That's not what I meant. It's not one of ours.”

Jak was puzzled. “Out here?” he asked. “Who else would it be?”

“It's archive technology. Nothing like it has been seen out here since the days of the consumers.”
Jak whistled. So long as this was dealt with sensitively and the politics were taken care of, this could dwarf the profits of the entire run.

“I see what you mean,” he said.

“No, sir, you don't.”

The first mate unfastened a door and retreated, relieved to have handed the problem over to someone else. Inside the small, square room a figure was sitting on a cot. Even without the long head and facial hair, he was recognizably Icelandic. Jak realized what trouble they were in.

“My name is Ven, Captain, and...” began the figure but Jak stopped him with a raised hand.

“Why were you out in the open ocean in a surface craft?” he demanded. “During the winter, you might try to cross dodging the hurricanes but at this time of year your only hope would be underwater, like us.”

“My departure was not exactly authorized,” explained Ven. “I had to take the opportunity as soon as it presented itself.”

“An escapee?” Jak sighed in exasperation – this just got worse. “So, correct me if I'm wrong, you have no resources outside the archive to pay for your passage and your only value is if I were to hand you over to them rather than risk angering one of our best, and most touchy, trading partners. Is that an accurate summation?”

“As far as it goes,” conceded Ven, “but in the longer term, that's the worst thing you could do. Is what we hear correct? Have the cities been abandoned?”

Puzzled, Jak nodded. “It is. After the zombie wars, nobody felt safe being stuck in one place any more. Not that such breeding grounds for disease ever made sense but we did lose our largest trading blocks.”

“Zombie wars?” asked Sven.

“That's what we call them out here. Less precise than 'synthetic viral psychosis' but shorter.”

“I understand,” said Sven. “After that, spreading out would make perfect sense. However, to the centralized control of the archive committee it represents a power vacuum. One which they intend to fill by forcefully expanding their influence using all means necessary.”

“They've always had influence,” Jak pointed out.

“Not like this,” Ven argued. “Their power was waning even before the war. They see the current situation as an all-or-nothing dash for total domination.”

“How do they expect to do that?” Jak snorted dismissively. “Do they think we're just going to roll over for them?”

“Now that the mange has been cured, plants can grow again but only the archive has the original seed stock. Area by area, they are going to replant and lay claim to different enclaves, inviting people in under their terms. When they have enough, phase two would involve subduing the rest by force; rather like the great collapse but in reverse.”

“The wanderers? The clans?” Jak asserted.

“The wanderers might hold out the longest,” conceded Ven, “but they already have some kind of hold over the clans. The important thing is that for a malcontent like myself and independent free-thinkers like you, their kind of rigid autocracy holds little appeal. I need your help in order to stop this.”

Jak shook his head. “We are mariners,” he said. “We trade in the trace minerals required to make the more exotic materials needed to keep society functioning and cannot afford to discriminate. Everyone has too much to lose for us to get involved in minor squabbles.”

“At least drop me off at your next port of call,” protested Ven. “Let me find someone who is prepared to help.”

Jak considered. “I can at least do that,” he conceded. “In fact, we have another passenger who might be who you're looking for. She's going to North America to search for a clansman of hers; someone who, apparently, played a major part in the war.”

“That was eighty years ago! Is he still alive?”

Jak shrugged. “She thinks so. She needs his help with some sort of clan trouble which may have some bearing on what you've just told me.”

“Thank you,” said Ven earnestly. “Once I have myself established out here, I'll see you get paid for my passage.”

“No!” snapped Jak. “I don't want trouble from the archive. Once you are on land, we shall never speak of this again. In the meantime, you are restricted to this room at all times – I want no connection between you and my ship.”

He left, sealing the hatch behind him. The first mate was waiting outside.

“We could always flush him back outside?” he suggested.

Jak gave it careful consideration. “No,” he said. “Take us up to communications depth. I want to sound out our brothers on this.”

Aaron contemplated a career in piracy. Not as a drunk, pillaging, scurvy-struck pirate, but certainly a world-savvy, philandering, globe-sailing pirate with charm, teeth, boyish looks and a desire to find hidden treasures with maps that marked key locations with Xs. He wasn’t sure how to find the employment that he wanted, but he thought this dingy tavern on the docks was a good place to start.

“What do you want?” barked a mammoth of a man on the other side of the bar. Aaron faltered, so the exasperated mammoth continued. “The good stuff came from a continental king’s ship earlier this week – God’s nectar. The bad stuff… not nectar of any kind.”

“I’ll have the good stuff,” wondering why he’d been offered a choice of only two drinks when several bottles lay behind the bar.

“Even someone with your fairy looks couldn’t afford it.” The mammoth served the bad stuff to Aaron, who wondered why he’d been offered a choice at all and exactly what constituted fairy looks. He subtly and self-consciously looked over himself – perhaps his shirt was a little frilly. He took a sip and wished he was richer.

“Off a king’s ship?” inquired Aaron, ignoring the disgusting aftertaste in his mouth. Treating Aaron as a disgusting aftertaste, the mammoth silently wiped down the bar with a dirty towel. Aaron pressed the matter. “Surely not brought all the way to this tavern from the contine-”

The mammoth aggressively stepped toward to Aaron, who nearly fell off his stool. “Listen, boy. I don’t have the time or inclination to answer your probing quest-”

“Wasn’t brought from the continent,” said a well-dressed, silver-stubbled man at a round table near the back of the tavern. “S’alright, Otto. He’s just curious.” His rich voice came from somewhere deep in his body.

Aaron, suddenly aware of the nasality of his own voice, turned to the man, who had two eyes, two legs and no parrot. “Yes, I’m just curious.”

“Sit down,” said the older man, packing a pipe as he gently kicked a spare chair at his table. Aaron cautiously joined the stranger. “What’s your name?”

“Aaron, sir-”

“Captain.” Aaron’s eyes widened. “You look familiar, Aaron,” said the older man, puffing on his pipe while looking over the younger man in front of him – the shirt was questionable, and a respectable beard was years away, but the shoulders were broad and the height impressive. Perhaps he could serve a purpose.

“Don’t think so, Captain,” responded Aaron, enjoying the scent of burning tobacco. “Haven’t been in these parts for very long.”

“Well, I’ve been in many parts – you do look familiar. What are you doing in this sleepy port town?”

“Need employment, Captain.”

The older man’s eyebrows raised a little. “On a ship, then?”

Aaron’s eyebrows raised a lot. “Yes, Captain.”

“What kind?”

Aaron crafted a subtle response. “One on which I can live life to the fullest.”

The older man liked the answer. “Experience?”

Aaron worked on another reply. “I’m from a fishing family, dependable, and I’m a good swordsman.”

“Good swimmer and diver?”

“The best of both you’ve ever known, Captain.” This was, in fact, the truth. “Supported my family with pearl and sponge diving for five years.”

The older man’s eyes twinkled. He was impressed and intrigued. “I know someone who needs a good character to retrieve something, something he has misplaced, from the bed of the lagoon.”

Aaron took a chance as he stared into his glass of the bad stuff. “What have you lost, Captain?”

The older man chuckled. “If I can trust your character, and if you really are the greatest of divers, then perhaps you’ll find out.” The older man sipped the good stuff and awaited a response.

Aaron smiled. “My character and abilities will pass any test, Captain.”

The tavern door suddenly burst open. Aaron turned his head, but the Captain stole back his attention. “I commandeer one of the world’s most feared vessels, and Otto is one of my most valued clients,” said the Captain with great speed and urgency, alarming Aaron. “If I employ you, will you defend him always?”

Aaron, confused, paused. “Well, I suppose-”

The Captain hit the table with a closed fist and spoke even faster. “And you are truly a good swordsman?”

Aaron, now very confused, squared his shoulders nonetheless. “Absolutely.”

“Then stand and fight.” The Captain stood and drew his sword.

A panicked Aaron pushed himself away from the table and stumbled until he was upright. He similarly drew his sword, and though bewildered, faced the Captain and gulped deeply. This was not the test he’d imagined.

“Captain, I’m not sure-”

“Not me, you fool. Them.” The Captain pointed his sword toward the door, in front of which stood five large men with olive tans, stubble, dark hair and stylish uniforms. Otto was already sporting a tremendous broadsword and a sneer that could chill blood.

The largest of the five wore an eyepatch and slowly looked over the tavern. His one good eye met the Captain’s two and widened. “You,” he snarled. He then turned back to Otto and spoke with a thick, strangely evocative accent. “You sell something that belongs to our king. We want it back.”

“Come and get it,” said Otto and the Captain in unison. Aaron gulped, significantly more deeply this time.

“It’s not too late to change your mind . . . we could go together . . . “ They stood towards the front of the boat, shielded from the rest of the team by the cabin: professor and student holding hands against the cold grey background of the Southern Ocean. It started as a query from the University’s history department to examine the seabed for a century-old shipwreck, then they had noticed chemical anomalies in a ravine within the search zone. Now they had the perfect opportunity to test the tiny, one-man research sub – the School of Oceanography's pet project, the Triton – in real conditions.

“You know the answer to that, you’ve been on this project since the start. Besides, we’ll have the radio. We’ll always be in contact.” He bent down and kissed her softly. “Love you, Linny, and stop worrying. I’ll see you again soon,” and he untangled himself from her and he walked off along the deck to where the Triton was waiting to deploy . . .

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You don’t have to do this if you’re not up to it, you know,” Josh leaned back on his chair, sipping his decaf. It was their last break before deployment, and he and Caroline sat in the main mess room of the commissioned naval submarine going over final preparations for the launch: Caroline would be taking the Triton II down and conducting tests with Joshua waiting in the back-up craft in case of an emergency.

She stared absently at the maps and print outs strewn out in front of them, covered in pencil scribbles and coffee rings, and rubbed her hands over her eyes. “You know, I’m as old as he was when he went down. Thirty-four. Ten years ago, when I was still just a graduate . . . “

“Caroline!” Josh snapped, as close to a yell as he would get. “You’re not going to find him!” While Josh was considered to be one of the quietest in Caroline’s team, his subtle precociousness and meteoric rise in the school hinted at an intelligence more often seen in the physics or mathematics departments; if anything, he was too good for Oceanography and although Caroline thought of him as indispensable she often wondered why he chose to remain in the discipline.

She kept her gaze on the table and sighed. “For the last time, I’m not trying to find him! I’m continuing his work but that’s all. If I happen to find the wreckage of the Triton while I’m down there then that’s good. That’s fantastic. We’ll find out what went wrong last time. But that’s not the point.”

“And that’s why you look like you haven’t slept in a month . . . “

“Josh, quit it. Yes, I’m stressed out, but it’s nothing to do with finding Sam’s body! For heaven’s sake, we’ve got the government on our backs, the climate change commission, the environmentalists, the geosequestration lobbyists, even those damn maritime history researchers with their damn missing ship that started all this in the first place . . .” She looked up at Josh, who was still rocking on the back legs of his chair and staring back at her with raised eyebrows. “Look, this is far more important now than when we tried it a decade ago and we need to know what’s causing those emissions from that ravine. And yet, you still think with all the pressure and with all the high-level investment into this project this is still some kind of bleeding-heart personal endeavour?”

Josh stopped rocking and sat up. “I never said anything about finding his body . . . “

“Ok, just stop. Stop right there . . .”

“Don’t pretend you never got over him, Caroline. I mean, why would you even consider it? A corpse down there in the bottom of the ocean wouldn’t last a day amongst the scavengers let alone a decade. You know, if you’re not thinking straight maybe you shouldn’t be doing this . . . ”

“Alright, that’s enough!” Caroline stood up, scraping the metal legs of the chair across the floor. “I don’t know what you’re trying to achieve, but I do not need this right now. ‘Senior Research Assistant’ still means ‘assistant’, Joshua, and don’t you forget it!”

He drained the last of his coffee and watched her storm out and disappear into the locker room to change. “Whatever you say, Professor . . .”

If you are reading this, I have either accomplished my mission or I am dead. Either way, this will be a story for the ages.

It all started about 10 years ago, while I was on holiday in Dublin, Ireland. My then husband and I were enjoying our 2nd honeymoon and were unbridled in our passion. We spent more nights in our rented flat then we did actually exploring the city. However, on one of the days I managed to escape his sinful clutches I wandered the city, not really searching for anything, just allowing my feet to take me where they pleased.

It was on that fateful day I stopped in at a pub and had myself a nice pint. It was at this moment my life would change forever. A man in his late fifties possibly sixties came limping up to me. His skin was like tanned leather, his hands as coarse as granite, and his breath smelled like aged whiskey. He wasn’t an ugly man, oh no quite the opposite, he was relatively handsome for his age.

“Whas a fine lass like you doin’ in a place like this?” he asked me.

“I’m enjoying a pint. Is that a crime?” I quipped.

He laughed a deep chested laugh and sat down at the barstool next to me. He didn’t say anything for a while, just sat there, staring at me with his ice-blue eyes, and smoking his pipe. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and asked, “Is there something I can help you with? Or are you just going to sit there and gawk at me?”

He laughed again. I started becoming uneasy and then he asked, “Whas yer name lass?”

“Abigail.”

“Well Abagel, mah name is Winston. You seem ta me like a woman wit a lotta fire in yer heart. Also seem like a very intelligent woman too. Whas it that ya do fer a livin’ if ya don’t mind me askin’?”

I became slightly annoyed but took the question with good faith and replied, “I’m a marine biologist with the British Institute of Aquatic Wildlife.”

This time he threw his head back and laughed drawing attention from the other patrons. I looked around slightly embarrassed and then turned my attention to Winston who was wiping some tears from his eyes.

“What the devil is so bloody funny?” I demanded. He stopped laughing and gave me a toothy smile. His blue eyes glinted with danger and part of me was tempted to leave the conversation, but the other part of me was curious. My father always said my curiosity would get the better of me one day. How right he would’ve been if he had lived to see this day.

“It seems the gods are in me favor. Allow me to properly introduce maself,” with that he stood up and gave a flourished bow and tipped his hat, “I am Captain Winston McQuillan IV. Me ship is Fae Queen. And you mah dear are jus the lass I ‘ave been searching for.”

We had drawn some more attention to our conversation and by this time I honestly wasn’t in the mood for unwanted attention. Without saying a word I paid my tab and left the pub. I hadn’t gotten more then a few steps out the door when a strong hand gripped my arm and dragged me into the alley.

I fought hard against my captor and bit his hand hard. I heard a scream and then that same deep laugh from inside the bar. I was released and spun around to come face to face with Captain Winston again.

“Who the hell do you think you are? I ought to call the guard on your sorry corpse and have you thrown in lockup!”

He laughed again and leaned against the wall, lighting his pipe. Again he looked at me with those eyes that captured that curious part of me and I couldn’t look away.

“Now, now Ms. Abagel if ya did that you wouldn’t be able to hear mah proposition I have fer ya.”

“Go on.”

He knew he had me, and he had the audacity to make me wait until he was finished with his pipe.

“Well? Are you going to tell me or am I going to call the guard?”

“If yer really wantin to call the guard ya would ‘ave done so already. No, you want to know what it is I offer ya. An’ I’ll tell ya, but not here, too many ears that don’t belong listening. Follow me.”

Without turning to see if I was following he walked briskly up the alley and disappeared from sight. I fought an internal battle, go with him or return to my husband. Sadly this wouldn’t be the last time I made this decision.

I followed.

It took me a while to catch up to him and by the time I did we were at a run down flat. He finally looked back at me and smiled. I was going to hate that smile in the next coming years. When we got inside, I gaped in awe. The walls were covered with literature and pictures of many different folklores.

He handed me a cup and I turned my attention to him. After a few brief moments he asked me the question that would change my life forever.

“’Ave you ever heard of Cthullu?”

     I could feel it sloshing around my ankles as I ran, pulling me back with each step. My mind flashed back to running across the beach during training, utilizing this same resistance. But back then, I wasn’t in a sinking submarine. I was an eighteen year old boy fresh out of high school, too poor to pay for college on my own, but with aspirations of becoming an engineer. The Reserve Officers’ Training Corps seemed like the perfect solution. Four years of college paid for, and an officer’s commission afterwards. If I’d known then that eight years later I’d be trapped alone in a sub, I probably wouldn’t have signed up. All the scholarship money in the world wasn’t worth this. My heart threatened to rip a hole in my chest it was beating so furiously. The sounds of groaning steel filling my ears as the force of rushing water worked to tear the ship apart. The screams of my men as they were sucked into the vortex.
     I was the lone survivor. I hadn’t been feeling well that day and had gone to rest in my quarters while the rest of them worked. I don’t know how it happened. One minute I was asleep, the next I was jolted awake by the force of a crash, the screeches of metal tearing open. And then the screams. A hundred men being wrenched through the hole, a roaring wall of water rushing in to replace them. I alone, sealed in my room, survived. But I was soon to join them, if I didn’t think quickly. The water was seeping in here, as well, now up to my knees. I was running frantically from wall to wall, trying to seal up the widening cracks with whatever I could: blankets, uniforms, old copies of Playboy. But it was no use. The water kept coming, the force outside was too much for the ship to handle.
     I’d never seen anything like it before. It was a phenomenon never detailed in any of the books I’d read, any of my training. The ship shouldn’t be reacting like this to one hole. The men shouldn’t have been sucked out as easily as soda through a straw. The walls shouldn’t be bending and warping around me like some sort of twisted fun house. But they were. I had given up trying to figure out what it was: a high-pressure spot caused by a shift in the tectonic plates, an underwater black hole of some sort… It was all just guesswork. And with the water swiftly rising to my shoulders, I was running out of time for idle theories. I tread water, trying desperately to stay afloat as the water rose, but my starched white uniform weighed me down. I threw my head back, to keep my nose and mouth above water-level, but that strategy could only work for so long. Finally, the room was filled. I opened my eyes under the murky water. I could see bubbles streaming from my mouth, fighting though I was to hold onto the air. My head was spinning, my lungs screaming from the lack of oxygen. I couldn’t hold on much longer. And then a dark shape appeared at the far end of the room. It was blurry; I couldn’t make out what it was. My eyesight was failing. Seconds, now, before I’d meet the fate of the rest of my crew. And just as my mind went black, I heard an alluring female voice, cooing, “Hello sailor.”

Nonchalantly walking beyond the frames of my front door, and taking rest on the front seats of my comfortable new Prius, I gazed into my imagination, visualizing the sensation of having a massive sturgeon, or a huge swordfish, flop onto the deck of my flimsy raft, knowing my family will feed well that night. It was a warm, inner feeling, that erupted right from my stomach, but that was all in good time.

Noticing I had forgotten my phone, I began to conceptualize whether it was really a required necessity. I probably consumed more time on this topic than it took to walk back inside, pick it up off the dresser and return to my car. My comfortable new friend was a gift from my wonderful wife. My glimmering, little rose of love would always be more valuable than my dreamy, white, glittering transport, but nonetheless, I couldn’t stop taking my car out for night rides to the library, and returning without a single book in hand.

Firing up the ignition was just as thrilling as always, but this time I needed to remain cool for my honored guests this evening. I was taking Mayor Hudson and his wife, Lady Hudson out to dinner on my ship, the Explorer. Today and tonight were neither times that could be spent on fishing, my one true glorious profession. Getting paid to sit in a boat for two hours, and occaisionally respond to the odd tug, apparently was more than enough to get me over $70,000 a year. A puzzle that always perplexed my sons and wife, but was never too much for me to grasp.

A chilled, relaxing, mellow drive was just what I needed to help calm down after a weekend with my children. Being four and six is fun, but not for the people who’s gradual, deterioration of hearing is being accelerated by voluntary shrieks, followed by something like “He hit me, Daddy!”

Dragging my car across the rickety North Star Pier, the distant Ferris Wheel came into view, as did the Explorer, and it’s sister ship, the Voyager. My best friend outside of the family, Vick Jones, captained the Voyager. Today, though, the Voyager was going into a week’s retirement. The Voyager was luxurious, I’ll give it that, but the Explorer just seems to scream, “I’m captained by the richest man in the city!” I, of course, am not the richest man in the city, but careful savings over the past forty years have lead to a healthy sum of money.

“Ah, hello Captain Seymour! Nice to see you!” said Mayor Hudson.

“Please, Mayor, call me Douglas,” I responded, after a firm, but friendly handshake.

“Okay, Douglas, let’s see her. Is she as beautiful as the townsfolk say?”

“I’d say so myself!” Came a familiar voice from behind me, followed by a familiar hand on my right shoulder.

“Oh, hello Captain Jones, or should I say Vick?” The Mayor said with a joyous smile. Mayor Hudson was a large man. His goatee made his face look rough and rigid, but that was merely a wolf mask on the face of a genuine sheep. His wife was skinny, not muscular like her husband at all. She was at the weight between skinny and well-fed, just like my wife.

“You can call me Vick. Today, I am merely this goofball’s humble friend and occasional butler. I’ll tell ya all you need to know about the Voyager or the Explorer that you want to know,” Vick told the mayor, arm now draped around my neck, with a wide, immovable smile on his face.

“That’s right, Vick knows more about my ship than I do! He has a PhD in engineering,” I added.

“Splendid, splendid. Well, may we board? It’s getting a bit cold out here.

“Sure, go right ahead,” I held out my arm in a gesture that said “This way, please,”

Mayor and Lady Hudson, as well as Vick boarded. Behind them, I tied a rope to symbolize that tourists were not welcome. I sat down my guests and proceeded to the bridge.

It was quiet in the bridge, as always, but today was the type of quiet when you feel that the room itself is lonely. Occasional laughs from the galley mean that the Hudsons were settling in nicely, and that Vick was doing an artist’s job at keeping them entertained. I pulled down the microphone as spoke in a captain’s voice “Lady and Gentlemen, we are now leaving North Star Pier,”

I slowly looked around at the flickering controls. CRASH! A huge sound exploded from the starboard bow. I ran up to the window. Nothing but a pool of blood was visible. Being the naturalist that I am, I got exited. I called up Vick to the deck, as well as the Hudsons.

We climbed aboard one of my rafts, and rowed in, after dropping anchor. Vick handed the Hudsons a periscope.

“Oh my goodness! There’s a shark down there!”

“What kind?” I asked. I swiveled around. "Mayor?" Vick looked at me with a trembling, terrified expression. I stared back with an empty, alone feeling.

Mayor Hudson was gone.

One Adventure I’d Rather Forget
Wednesday, October 3rd, 2021.

A slow start to a slow day. I’ve never been a morning person. The sunrise has always been a symbol of a ten-minute drive to my nearest Coffee Bean, as well as the stroll inside, laptop tucked under my right arm, and clenching five dollars in my left hand. I’ve been a nautical journalist for as long as I remember. My father would tell me stories of when I was 5, feeding the jubilant dolphins and ecstatic orcas. Of course, they were different times. Now I only write of my experiences as a young enthusiastic, and that is what you read every morning.

There’s a long story behind why I no longer exercise my knowledge of Marine Biology in the field. Three reasons usually lead to ending a beloved profession. The third and least common these days is emotional reaction to something, one may say, ‘disturbing’.

Back in 2001, exactly 20 years ago today, my father and I were onboard our boat, the U.S.S. Poseidon. This story takes place shortly subsequent to the 9/11 attacks, and the nation was still in its panicked frenzy that no government should ever have to endure, no matter how little they did to prevent further damage to the Twin Towers. I remember clearly sitting on the bow of the Poseidon, arms draped around Daddy’s middle, looking directly into the sunset, trying desperately to witness a green flash.

“Dad? Why is there a green flash?” I would always counter the silence of a lost conversation with a relevant query.

He sighed a pondering sigh. “You know, I really have no idea. D’you want to call Mum and see if she can look it up before we see it?”

“Yeah!” Dad pulled out his cellular phone. He would always tell me stories of how Mum called him on a brick-sized cell phone from the hospital when she was giving birth to me. His new phone was the height of technology at the time.

“Shelly? Would you mind looking something up on Google quickly? Could you tell us why there’s a green flash when the sun goes down?”

I heard the quiet tip tapping of keys on our new computer. We were a rich family, and could afford to keep our computer, cellular phones and boat all active year-round.

“I’ll have to call you back,” Click.

“What’s wrong Dad?”

“We have to turn this boat around.

“Why?”

“What the..?!?” The Poseidon lurched violently to port-side. We saw the flash.

Conclusion Next Wednesday.

Thanks for reading,
Jimmy Merlin, New York Times.

It remains the greatest mystery of all. Life started in the oceans loving but harsh embrace. Life struggled to leave it and moved to the land. Life flourished on the land just as it had in the seas. It found its way to the highest mountain tops, it flew, it crawled, it prowled the deeps of the Earth’s caves and caverns. Yet it is to the water that all life must return. It nurtures us, it keeps us alive, and it reminds us of from where we came and to where we will always return.

I stand here, on the deck of this mighty ship as it is rocked by the steady waves of the ocean. It is calm today, but it can turn violent at a moments notice. Yet we return to it, we try to plum its depths, to see what it is that we have left behind. What amazing creatures, what incredible sights wait for us to find them? Yet there is no light at the bottom, in the shadows creatures that do not seem of this world lie in wait, they belong in our nightmares and they lurk below. We hope to find something, some new thing, some new life, some new rock, some thing of significance, some thing to make us happy that we have left the bottomless depths of the ocean behind.

It does not matter what we find there, even if what we find is nothing. The ocean is like a cruel mistress, one that we cannot help but return to; no matter how much we know we shouldn’t. It flows through our blood I think. The motion calls to my heart, makes it beat in rhythm with the waves. I feel my pulse move with the rocking of the boat while the salty air stills my breathing, dries my eyes, and burns my skin.

I shall die here in the ocean I know. I could stay safe back on the land, away from the mysteries of the deep. But it calls to me, and it is a call that I cannot, will not deny. I must know what lies in wait for me below. I must see what it is we left behind so many eons ago. Perhaps I will find why we left and it will frighten me back to the safety of the land, but I do not think this will happen. It will just call to me again, and like a moth to a flame, I will return.

My crew calls to me. It is nearly time and our destination lies just ahead. The Mariana Trench, the deepest part of the ocean eagerly awaits our arrival. We will go to the Challenger Deep, we will sail the length of the trench, and we will find the truly deepest part.

I can hear the trench, calling, begging to be explored. It talks to me; it tells me that it has many mysteries just waiting for me to unravel them. It is a cruel mistress. It tempts me with that which it knows I want, but it the end it will not give me the answers I seek. It will attempt to kill me, to let me rest in torment on the rocky floor. This may be my final destination, and if it is I welcome it with open arms. But I do not believe that it will be today. No this day holds promise, promise and mysteries, and I will not be denied my piece of the puzzle. Not this day for there is still tomorrow, and tomorrow… tomorrow I may die wrapped in my mistress’ loving but harsh embrace.

It is a hot night in June, the moon is high in the cloudless sky and there is nothing to be heard but the song of the crickets and frogs that has come to be so familiar... I look out the window of the lighthouse, and I watch the light waves as they silently move back and forth on the sand below. As I watch, I wonder how it can be that only a year ago I had never before set eyes on the ocean. So much has happened since then; the sea has become a part of me. It is almost like the life I lived once now belonged to someone else. Memories of a young city girl freshly graduated from college and the big ambitions she had dreamed of long ago now seem so far away, I look back at them as if peering through a mist, as if they were not my own. But then, they are not anymore. Now I have different dreams -ones that might be regarded as trivial and childish, but I have learned in these past months that the most important things in life are the ones we tend to overlook and the most powerful forces are the ones we often underestimate. I have a new life now; one so different from the one I used to lead that I sometimes wonder how on earth could things change so drastically in such a short time.

I look up at the moon once more trying to recall the night it had all started, back at the time when I seldom looked up at the moon and marveled at its beauty; back to when a peaceful night meant locking myself in my crammed little apartment to catch up on my work. And I feel myself being caught up in the whirl as time starts turning in on itself, moving backwards taking me back a little over eleven months to a night much like this one.

It was a hot night towards the end of May, and I was driving my Jeep down Main Street with no clue of what was to come. I had finished work at 5, and had stopped by my friend Amy’s house for a cup of coffee after that. I wanted to go over some research for work with her; we both worked in the investment business and had graduated from the same university with only one-year difference, and I highly trusted her opinion and expertise. As I had walked by her living room, I glimpsed a scene from a fiction movie her two kids were watching. Some kind of mythical creature was rising from the depth of the sea, and a one-eyed captain was shouting instructions at his crew who were hysterically running back and forth on the endangered ship.
“Why do you let them watch this stuff?” I asked Amy as I sat down at the kitchen counter.
“Well, it’s good for their imagination,” she smiled. “Plus it’s fun to watch them pretend to be pirates as they save their ship from a horrible sea monster,” she giggled at the memory, “it’s my own entertainment show live at home.”

Back in my car, I thought back to how long it had been since I’d watched that kind of movies. Since before I started college, I realized. It never really interested me to watch mythological creatures come to life to defend hidden treasure that was about to be discovered by a bunch of drunk pirates who had lost arms, legs and eyes trying to get a treasure that might or might not exist. I was always the practical person who knew that the only way to get what you want was to work hard and slowly work your way up the success ladder where you will find guaranteed treasure; money, lots of it. Or maybe getting married to a rich guy would do the trick, but in the meantime I stuck to plan A. I had no idea that the very things I had never believed in and never even given a chance on TV would come knocking on my door.

As I heated frozen dinner later that night, I heard a knock on my door. “Hello Nora,” he said. It was fate in the person of an old man with a familiar face, come to begin the journey I had never dreamed of doing but I am sure –now– I was meant for.