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The cliff rises. Kissed by oily waves.
It is a stain on the seamless horizon. Glimmering, gnarled canvas. At the bottom the water laps, and something grows. Yellow foamy scum. Resilient and audacious, to grow where it does. Also, unnatural.
The cold at night was a slow chew in our bones, for Rowansin and I. Tried to snatch sleep in two hours of darkness squeezed, spattered onto the world. A wink of rest, pulled taut by gelid air slung low over us.
Have you seen my cigarette case? I knew he was lying when he said no.
Sky and sea of searing blue. Days were long. No wind, ever. Nights not nights at all, just dimmer, but the cold they brought was spiteful. Through day and night, the sea carried us willingly, because it was waiting.
Why haven’t we drifted, if the anchor is up?
I had only two left. Rolled with rice paper dipped in deepsea oil surplus (for extra combustive kick), containing Mermaid Island tobacco, which, obviously, I paid through the nose for.
One pale night. A strange noise led me on deck. A silhouette hovered against the cliff. Spectral man’s back, knotted in ugly contortion like worms squashed into the shape of a person. A hum vibrated in Rowansin’s throat. Arms out like antennas in feverish prayer. I told him he should get some sleep, while he could.
Is a cliff a cliff when there is no land behind it?
I went back to bed and stared into darkness.
Another evening, Rowansin was cooking breakfast, frying two long-life eggs (badly). I opened my mouth to complain and he turned, hand squeezed around the red thing protruding from his dirty undershorts, and wailed, Show me your tits, for god’s sake!
I asked, again, Where is my cigarette case? Rowansin? It’s silver. It’s engraved. It’s one of a kind.
Rowansin sobbed into the pan.
I took to my bunk, hungry for darkness, my nose just inches from the ceiling. Darkness can be a hearty meal, if you know the correct way to eat it. A groan gurned up from beneath. I held my breath. I think, technically, I was underwater.
Rowansin’s voice came through the walls. It’s breathing, can’t you see! We’ve been lied to!
Back in the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten the eggs. I scraped them out of the pan and ate them, trying not to picture his shiny cock near the food prep area.
*
Trying to cut open a tin of beans, I asked Rowansin, Did you try the engines again last night?
No. Fuck off. They’re fucked.
You were watching it again yesterday.
Rowansin folded his arms. I don’t watch it.
I found the fishing gear earlier.
Maybe you can catch your bloody cigarette case.
*
The first time we brought up the nets, it was just green slime and disappointment. The next, a purple tentacle. Rowansin chopped it up and fried it in butter. The chunks were still pulsing in the pan when he ate it. I declined. Rowansin spent the next two days shitting over portside.
*
I went into the engine room earlier. It’s very wet. Did something happen?
It’s not wet. That’s just. Grease. Engine grease. For lubrication. Rowansin started doing star jumps.
The compass on the control panel. It was just spinning. Around and around. Never seen anything like it. Do you think we were supposed to come here?
Those — were — the — co — ordin — ates, Rowansin said. Teeth gritted, jump jump jump jump.
*
The last egg had a black dot on the shell. We boiled and shared it. I stowed the shards of shell in my pocket. For dinner, later.
Rowansin looked up from his half. I didn’t touch you.
I know.
It’s just all very unnatural, isn’t it? All this infernal worrying.
I subscribe to the theory that worrying is merely a choice. It is not something that needs to be done.
Rowansin roared and knocked his head against the wall. I’ll show them all!
He pushed the plate across. You can have the rest.
His idea of goodbye.
*
The hollow splosh came when I was sure to hear it. Rowansin was not a strong swimmer. He gagged and swore as he paddled. I expected him to be pulled under, but he made it and began the climb. Strings of yellow foam dangled from his bony limbs.
I watched him for three days. Puny shred of flesh against the black grooves and rucks, a smear of gold behind him. He talked to himself. Sometimes he would slip and dangle there for a second. Sometimes I hoped he would fall. For the variety.
At the top he reached up, trying to cup the sun in his hands. A white speck in the blue. Then Rowansin became a red dot, and flaked away.
A fly, swotted.
*
The sun crisping up my back, I spied something glinting in the net. A wink of silver. Like the scales of a fish, only better.
I sat for hours hugging it to my chest. It left a sweet, red mark. Fresh bubbles of pus were rising on my back. Hot bed of blistering.
The cigarette case even shone in the dark. My back hummed with pain. The two cigarettes huddled together like good friends. Completely dry. I held one aloft, towards the cliff. Guarding. Keeping in, keeping out, nothing. The cigarette jutted from the top like a chimney. I flicked it into the water. For Rowansin. I actually missed him. His indignant turbulence always failing to hide the fragility of his maleness. Endearing now, in its absence.
I lit my cigarette. It popped as the oil caught. I coughed. Nausea clamped at my guts. Pleasure is in the anticipation. The water had made me forget that.
I couldn’t find the eggshell in my pocket, but I did find an egg. It had a black dot on it.
The cliff rises. Kissed by oily waves.
