Neurotica Page 7

When Christopher was young, his father taught him to keep his head above water. Now he was putting that lesson to good use. Yes, that time had come, in his mid-thirties, when everything piled up and he felt lost in the current. Money drifted by, yet he was powerless to seize hold of it; most opportunities were lost to him. Yes, economics were a problem. Countless forms and legal documents floated in and out of his life, the burden of the common man. The wind played havoc with family photographs. Memories of the wedding dissolved before him. Alas, the sufferings of a married man. The unrelenting waves broke against him, drenching his hair. His temples ached from the cold ocean water. His lips tasted salt, eyes stung, and a storm was brewing on the horizon. All the while bobbing around on the horizon.

  Although Christopher was surrounded by forms, documents, money, and photos - the flotsam and jetsam of his life - he could not locate their source. Not only did the waves obscure his sight, but, strangely, he had no control over his limbs. In fact, he felt an uncomfortable numbness from the neck down; almost a lack of presence, as if he wasn't quite there. Maybe he really wasn't. How else could he explain it? After all, it was a miracle that, with no effort on his part, he managed to keep above the water. Of course, no effort was possible.

  He was troubled by his situation; he could not recall how he arrived there. Perhaps the initial fear of his predicament was so overwhelming that he forgot everything prior to it. Maybe that was it. With the storm brewing and all, his mind had been adrift - hardly a mood for piecing things together. Yes, like walking around a corner, daydreaming, and running into someone, or absent-mindedly descending a staircase, suddenly twisting an ankle, he was shocked into the reality of his situation. He would have to accept it, pure and simple. He was lost at sea, paralysed, but not yet drowning, and it was as simple as that.

  But the sudden realisation troubled Christopher nonetheless. No amount of rationalizing could relieve his frustration. Where was his salvation? How long had he been bobbing around at sea? With no celestial bodies in sight, due to the impending storm, he had no sense of direction. He was truly lost. Instinctively, he cried out, even though there was no evidence of anyone around to hear him. Yet, his own cries gave him comfort that he was actually still there, still fighting the odds stacked up against him.

  “If a man cries out in the ocean, does anybody hear?”

  Why did he ask himself that question? He worried the same madness might claim his conscience, having already claimed his memory. But maybe his memory was erased by some sort of drug, the same drug that paralysed his entire body, leaving him with a sickly feeling of loss, as if the water was flowing right through him. Could it be true? Had there been some sort of conspiracy set against him? By whom? Suddenly, he heard a familiar sound, or at least he thought it was familiar. Maybe his memory hadn't completely failed him after all. The sound came again, in the near distance, hidden by waves and a darkening sky. It disturbed him, that sound. He didn't know why, but he loathed it. Yet, at the same time, if he could turn and head towards it, he would. Salvation at last, it occurred to him. He began to scream at the top of his lungs, providing they were still there. Again the noise. A distant ringing it was, followed by a burst of laughter; he could hear it all clearly now. Although the ringing seemed familiar to him, he could not recall, try as he might, why it filled him with such contempt. And then it drifted into view.

  It was a long greyish shadow with a few illuminated portholes, massive smokestacks silhouetted against the brooding sky, waves breaking against it. The engines seemed to be off, so he could hear the ringing all the more clearly, the laughter as well. Not normal laughter, but sinister somehow; as if someone was enjoying something forbidden. Christopher's sense of hearing was so acute he could pick up all of these nuances.

  “Help me,” he cried up at the ocean liner, hoping it wouldn't pass him by, “I'm over here!”

  Thunder rose in the distance. The wind seemed to pick up, tossing Christopher mercilessly. The forward deck was in view, as the ocean liner towered over him, threatening to pass right by, or run him over; either fate was not preferred. He thought he saw someone on the deck, racing back and forth, like a chicken in a storm, or, more aptly, like a chicken with its head cut off. There definitely was someone there! Christopher tried to call up to the person, but he swallowed some water, the waves becoming more savage, and the winds carried his words astray. Coughing, gasping for breath, gathering the strength to call out again, Christopher noticed that the person on the deck, high above, was tossing garbage overboard. Box after box flew skyward, twisting in the wind, spiralling downward, floating around Christopher, landing on his head, mocking him. It wasn't just garbage, he realised. It was photos, documents, and money, all swirling around him now. His realisation was immediate. He had come to the source.

  Christopher was angry, to say the least. All his belongings were being thrown overboard, cast out to sea for some unknown reason. Hardly a good policy for a reputable ocean liner, if that's what it was. He intended to report the incident to the Captain as soon as he got on board. Of course, that was his main concern - getting on board.

  “Help me,” he called out again, regaining his breath, “I'm paralysed. Please help me!”

  The ocean liner seemed to be passing him by. There was no other sign of life on the decks, aside from the person tossing things overboard, too busy with his work to hear Christopher far below, apparently. Christopher recalled that, from a distance, some of the portholes seemed to be lit, but under closer examination, they seemed vacant, lifeless. He was crying out in vain at a towering piece of steel, cold and impersonal, drifting right by him. Suddenly, a light at the end of the tunnel, in the shape of a dimly lit porthole, slowly drifting towards him in the darkness. He saved his energy, preferring to call out at that crucial moment when it was passing directly overhead. He could hardly contain himself. The waves bouncing off the ocean liner seemed to be pushing him away. The porthole was almost directly overhead; he became transfixed, almost speechless. Their eyes seemed to fall directly upon each other, despite everything. Her face was perfectly framed in the soft light. Stunned, he screamed something unintelligible, almost uncontrolled.

  “Christopher?” she cried against the wind.

  She snapped her porthole shut and raced out of her quarters. Was he saved? Did she see him - hear him - amongst the darkness and the waves? The porthole he spotted her at passed into the distance. Soon the stern would be passing by, and then he'd be left in the wake, alone, helpless. But the alarm rang out again and again, and two people raced to the railing of the aft deck. They struggled in the wind with a long pole, trying to get it over the railing and down to Christopher. He would be saved! But the rescue plan, as it unfolded before Christopher, was plagued with logistical problems. For one thing, the two rescuers aboard the boat had great difficulty getting the pole anywhere near Christopher; and another, Christopher, being paralysed, could not take hold of the pole, or the ridiculously small net, which he noticed at the end of it.

  “I'm paralysed!” Christopher screamed, in desperation, hoping to be heard. “I can't take hold! You'll need something else - a bigger net!”

  “Did you hear that?” the ship steward shot a glance at the first officer, who was trying to stop the bell from ringing. “He says this won't do!”

  “Well it'll just have to do,” the first officer scowled, straining to direct the pole towards Christopher, far below.

  The wind was merciless and the bell was just getting in the way now. Ringing on and off erratically, the first officer no longer found it so enjoyable. The initial excitement was always a lot greater than a prolonged engagement made necessary by a stubborn sense of duty. In fact, he wished that obligation had not bound him to the bell, at least not so tightly, so intimately. Of course, he rang it during emergencies, such as the case at hand, but it also rang, whether he wanted it to or not, when he turned a corner too quickly, or got up from his seat too abruptly. It became a real problem when he slept; the slightest tossing and
turning and he'd be rudely awakened by it. Of course, whenever he stepped up to use the urinal, the situation was embarrassing at best.

  “The wind and the waves,” the steward gasped, helping the first officer push the pole, “they're not letting us get close enough to him! This is hardly a successful rescue attempt, and it's unlikely that we'll get those promotions you mentioned!”

  “I know,” the first officer nodded, clenching his teeth, his hands more than full, “it's hard to get ahead in this career.”

  From the other side of the deck, a handful of sailors looked on, sweeping up the ashes of their fellow crewmen, pausing periodically to watch the rescue. The wind made their attempts futile, and guaranteed all the deceased a burial at sea. The wind continued to wreak the same havoc on the slipshod rescue attempt, when it suddenly turned things to the rescuer's favour.

  Christopher, by now frantic in his helpless state, was raised up by a wave that carried him directly towards the net. He panicked. How could he grab hold of it? What was he to do? They should be using a gaff hook for him. Yes, that was it! He was about to cry out when he experienced the oddest sensation. The net, much to his surprise, as small as it was, had closed in and around him. In fact, it seemed to pass right through him. Before he could examine what he felt, he was being raised up out of the water. The mesh pressed in on his nose, almost forcing his lips shut, as he let out a muffled cry. He felt abnormally light, almost dizzy. He was being pulled up much too quickly. Something was very wrong. His senses reeled. He was aware of everything that was happening, as unbelievable as it was, yet he was powerless to do anything about it.

  “Careful,” the first officer shouted to the steward, as they turned the pole to the right, bringing Christopher up over the railing.

  “What the hell?” Christopher gasped, dripping wet, dangling high above the deck, twisting in the wind, dizzy, the mesh pressing in around him. “What the hell? What's going on! I intend to complain to the Captain! I was better off bobbing around in the water!”

  “He's ranting!” the steward blurted, straining to help the first mate direct the pole.

  “Get me down from here!” Christopher cried.

  “He does seem quite beside himself,” the first officer nodded, as they swung Christopher down towards the deck. “Set him down easy.”

  The steward, lacking experience in such matters, served only to frustrate the first officer's rescue attempts. The wind blew up suddenly, catching them both off guard. Christopher swung against a cargo hatch. He let out a terrible cry, and then fell unconscious. Dropping the pole, the first officer gave the steward a critical look. The steward shrugged his shoulders and tried to look away.

  “Well, I suppose that'll calm him,” the first officer removed his hat, wiping his brow with his sleeve.

  The steward, hands on hips, looked down at Christopher, or what was there of him.

  “Well,” he sighed, “what do we do now?”

  “I'm not sure,” the first officer knelt over Christopher, “this is beyond the scope of my duties. I suppose we'll have to take ... this to the Captain and see what he says.”

  The steward stepped back. The sailors, still busy on the other side of the deck, stopped with their sweeping. Looking towards the first officer, they thought they heard him clearly, but hoped they were mistaken. They were ready to race off the deck, if they had to. The mere mention of him set it off. Yes, the Captain would know of this matter; he'd have to be involved. He wasn't the Captain for nothing. He had achieved his rank through heritage; his father was a sailor off the coast of Africa. He had achieved his rank through determination and perseverance; he had fought valiantly aboard many a war ship. He had achieved unlimited knowledge and wisdom from countless years spent upon all the seas spanning the globe. But most off all, he achieved his rank because of that third eye in the middle of his forehead that focused mental energy into a destructive ray that could destroy small vessels and set oceans ablaze. Yes, in the end, he had achieved his rank through fear.

  “Do you really think that's necessary?” the steward trembled, for it was cold, the wind becoming quite fierce.

  “Yes,” the first officer nodded, trying to keep his bell from ringing in the wind, and in front of the other sailors, “We have to see the Captain. Grab hold of ...” he paused, looking down at Christopher, “him before that storm comes up and washes us overboard!”

  They plodded up stairs, down walkways, wind and waves shooting spray, making their footing dangerous. The steward, unable to keep his balance at times, and afraid of what was ahead, held Christopher tightly by the hair, cradling him under his left arm, trying not to drop him. The first officer kept stopping to prevent his bell from ringing, much to his embarrassment. They were soon at the control room, the lights penetrating out through water splashed glass and ocean spray. The steward allowed the first officer to go first, out of fear and custom. Thrusting the door open, the wind roaring up behind them, they came upon the Captain.

  The Captain was slumped against the steering wheel, a half-empty bottle of vodka in his right hand, barely keeping himself off the ground.

  “Oh, lucky for us,” the first officer turned to the steward, shivering behind him, “he's got himself drunk again. He'll be easier to deal with.”

  “What's going on?” Christopher suddenly cried, almost causing the steward to drop him. “Where am I?”

  The first officer ran in and helped the Captain up as best he could, propping him against the wheel.

  “The Captain will see you now,” he turned to Christopher, as if to answer his question.

  The steward, however, was reluctant to bring Christopher in. He stood at the door, mouth ajar, shivering, the wind roaring behind him. He had heard many questionable stories about the Captain, but never met him face to face. And now he knew that all those stories were true, not just bizarre concoctions of drunken sailors gone mad from too many weeks at sea. It was almost too much for him to comprehend. Seeing the Captain's weathered face and that great unknown - the eye of the soul, the key to forgotten and mysterious corners of the mind, there in full view, both terrible and fascinating - he almost forgot he had a man's head beneath his arm. What mysteries float in the Captain's head? Mystery, the unknown, breeds fear. Everything in the Captain's mind - the rage, the guilt of years spent at sea, pent-up emotions - could explode at any moment, bursting out through that third eye.

  “Give that to me,” the first officer leaned towards him, taking Christopher by the hair, pulling him in and slamming the door so the steward and the upcoming storm were locked out.

  “Watch what you're doing!” Christopher cried, as the first officer plunked him down on a table. “I intend to complain about the service and the conditions aboard this ship! Although I'm not sure what those conditions were previously, I sense that they've deteriorated somewhat.”

  “What do we have here?” the Captain stuttered, looking at Christopher and then the first officer.

  Facing the Captain now, Christopher was speechless. Considering everything he'd been through, the flurry of bizarre emotions, fears and thoughts, this was but another rung in the ladder, heading straight up to insanity.

  “I know why you're looking at me like that,” the Captain belched, “because I'm drunk!”

  “I found him overboard, sir,” the first officer saluted. “I happened to be on the aft deck, ringing the bell to signal the approaching storm, as you ordered, when I heard his cries. He was bobbing in the waves. I called to the steward for help, and we proceeded to rescue him.”

  “What were you doing overboard?” the Captain growled, trying to stand up straight. “Don't you know there are rules aboard this vessel?”

  “This is ridiculous,” Christopher began, trying to shake his head. “Look at me! Something terrible has happened and I want to know who's responsible. How can I be blamed for being overboard? Can't you see that, or are you so drunk that you're limited to simply steering the ship? The most important question is how did this h
appen and, what's foremost in the back of my mind - where's my body?”

  “You've picked a late hour to make such requests,” the Captain stumbled forward, almost dropping his bottle, “and, on top of it all, we're heading into a storm. Can't you come back tomorrow morning when everything's blown over? I'm liable to be sober then.”

  “I can't believe what I'm hearing,” Christopher shot an angry glance at the Captain and then the first officer, who was still at attention, but ready to catch the Captain if he should fall. “It just isn't convenient or practical for me to return tomorrow. Several questions have to be answered. You don't understand what I've just been through! First, lost at sea - powerless, immobile, helpless, without a clue, my life washing up, floating around me. And now this shocking revelation,” he paused, looking down at the table he was resting on - “the reason for my paralyses, my helplessness. How can you just blow this off as a common event that can be dealt with tomorrow morning? Don't you see that something isn't right here? Doesn't the sight of me and my strange plight shock you?”

  “Shock me?” the Captain roared, the first officer stepped away instinctively, closing his eyes briefly. “Look at me,” he stabbed a finger towards the centre of his forehead. “Do I look normal to you? Do you have any idea what I've been through? You've just had a rough evening, but I've lived with this my entire life. Do you know what it's like to live with something like this, something so powerful it’s terrible - a burden, not a blessing? My family had to move me from school to school and town to town as my playmates went missing and house after house burnt down. And now, do you think I'm happy as a Captain aboard a ship, in such close confines with other men? Hold on a second,” he ran over to the wheel, turned it a little, and then returned. “There's a very strong head wind tonight. Right then, as I was saying, I've lost almost all of my crew since the start of this cruise. Every time I turn around I invite disaster! There's always something ablaze, or a hole in the hull. It's my father's fault, of course; he got me hooked on sailing. And I know what you're thinking,” he wagged a finger at Christopher, who was speechless, having got a better look at the Captain. “You're thinking: why not end it? Well, do you know how many times I've tried to plunge a knife into this chest?” he ripped open his uniform, spilling some vodka. “Once or twice, but I usually have a couple of drinks and then forget about it.”

  The Captain walked over to a chair and sat down across from Christopher.

  “I like being out at sea,” he crossed his legs, “the air does me good.”

  “I'm sorry,” Christopher began, “I didn't mean to diminish the significance of your suffering, but I really must press my case. I suppose that, in a way, you know how I feel right now and, hopefully, you can sympathize with me and help me get to the bottom of this. I'm not asking for much, just some help for a helpless man. After some careful thought and recollection, difficult in my state of mind - and not that I wasn't paying attention to your story - I've managed to put a few pieces of the puzzle together. Now I think I know how you can help me solve this problem once and for all.” Christopher paused, partly for dramatic effect, partly out of a strange feeling of reluctance. “Could you please summon my wife? I'm almost certain that I saw her peering out a porthole. Well, I'm certain she's my wife - who else could it have been? At least she knew me - she cried down to me! Regardless, it makes sense to find her. Maybe then we can find out what happened, locate my body, and get this nonsense over with!”

  “That sounds like the best course of action,” the Captain nodded, sipping his vodka, “first officer, ring for his wife.”

  “My pleasure,” the officer saluted.

  Christopher rolled his eyes. He hated that ringing. He had to look away from the first officer, pulling his bell-rope in front of him. He wished he could summon his wife himself.

  “You rang?” Clea appeared at the door in her housecoat, half concealed, the wind roaring in.

  “Yes,” the first officer took a deep breath, collecting himself, shocked at her sudden arrival, “we have your husband's head.”

  “Oh,” Clea stepped in, closing the door behind her, “I thought that was it bobbing around out there. How fortunate you found it, with the storm getting so bad.”

  The first officer, lighting a cigarette, just nodded.

  “Clea,” Christopher burst, “Look at me. What's happened to me? What's going on?”

  “Well my dear,” Clea leaned over him, pulling her housecoat tighter, “you were leaning over the bow, perhaps admiring something in the waves, maybe out of lack of anything better to do, and your head simply came loose and fell straight down into the water.”

  “That can't be,” Christopher cried. “Look at me - that's no explanation! I must have been struck from behind. Foul play is at work!”

  “But I was there, behind you,” Clea insisted. “I saw it happen.”

  “I don't believe it,” Christopher looked towards the first officer, still enjoying a cigarette, and the Captain, snoozing in his chair. “Something is very wrong here. I have to know why this has happened to me.”

  “I don't know why he's so excited,” the first officer shrugged, looking towards Clea. “It seems a likely story.”

  “He's always been headstrong,” Clea crossed her arms.

  “If your story is true,” Christopher burst, “if it really happened as you said, then why didn't you immediately sound the alarm? Do you know what it was like for me out there? I can hardly describe it, the emptiness I felt. If my head just rolled right off my shoulders in front of you, then why didn't you do something - anything?”

  “It was the most spontaneous thing you ever did,” Clea replied, “and it soon became a real adventure for me. I was taken in by it all, I admit. I had to really wrestle with you - you're body that is; it was difficult to get it to cooperate, running all over, into this and that, scaring the crew. But at the same time, you were full of a certain playfulness that appealed to me. It wasn't like before; the change was instantaneous, I guess. No more worries. No more lamenting. Of course, I had to mother you a bit more, stop you from wandering into other people's rooms, or sticking your hand into the toilet, but it was still a welcome change.”

  Suddenly, the Captain awoke. When a storm was brewing, he became full of a certain urgency that prevented him from getting too calm or comfortable in any given situation. As a result, he was forever in a state of subdued readiness, always anticipating disaster. He ran over and tried the radio. Nothing but static. He adjusted the various knobs and dials, but to no avail. He turned the radio off.

  “Ah, that thing's never worked,” he waved his hand, returning to his seat, falling back to sleep.

  “Clea,” Christopher spoke softly, wanting her to come closer, “we have to get off this ship. We can sort out what's happened to me later. But now, let's just find my body and leave before we end up going down with this wreck!”

  “That won't be so easy,” she sat next to him. “I haven't been able to find your body since dinner. I fear it's lost, or gone overboard.”

  “Actually, come to think of it,” The first officer spoke up, butting his cigarette into an ashtray, “I saw a headless body on the aft deck, throwing some papers overboard, about an hour ago.”

  “You have to take me there,” Christopher pleaded.

  “I don't know,” Clea sighed.

  “What do you mean?” Christopher looked up at her, astonished. “We have to get off this ship before it goes down!”

  “You're boring me already with your worries,” she turned her back to him. “I'd rather really live, if only for a moment, and go down quickly than live forever with your tediousness!”

  “Clea,” Christopher frowned, wishing the first officer wasn't there, listening to everything. Christopher felt violated by his presence. Perhaps the first officer sensed this, excusing himself to use the washroom. Christopher waited, listening for the washroom door locking; when the ringing began, he started up again, confident that the first officer was indisposed
.

  “Clea, whatever do you mean?”

  “I'm sick and tired of your worries getting between us. Now you've went and pulled this stunt, and somehow you find me to blame. You suggest that I'm not telling the truth, as if the world is out to get you and I'm merely an accomplice. Well, you should take this entire thing as a sign of your severe self-indulgence. You always take your meagre problems and blow them out of proportion, as if your trials and tribulations are all that matter. In the process, you suck the life out of everything! There's nothing of interest between us because there's nothing there for me. There's just no fun anymore.”

  “I didn't know that things were getting that bad,” Christopher looked up at Clea, humbled by what he heard. “You should have told me long ago. I guess I didn't have my head on straight. How can I apologise? I know I take work too seriously, but I'm only concerned about the future - our future. Perhaps you're right, I should concentrate more on the present and live for the moment. I guess I let my worries overtake me, and in the process I've neglected the one I love, taken you for granted.”

  “Yes,” Clea sighed, “something like that.”

  “What's that compass say?” The first officer cried suddenly, exiting the washroom.

  He ran over to the compass and nervously checked the other instruments.

  “I thought a change was coming over,” he thought aloud.

  “What's wrong now?” Christopher asked.

  “We're way off course,” the first officer shook his head. “We're no longer out at sea!”

  “What do you mean?” Christopher panicked, Clea moving closer to him. “Where are we then?”

  The first officer removed his hat, quickly running his fingers through his hair, giving the distinct impression that a mistake had been made; he wasn't very good at hiding it. He rubbed his forehead, perhaps intentionally avoiding the question, perhaps wishing he hadn't raised concern. Pulling his hat back on, he paused, then looked Christopher directly in the eye.

  “We're in the headwaters.”

  “Is that bad?” Christopher immediately asked, Clea sitting next to him, her hand on his head, comforting him as best she could, given the circumstances.

  “Well, it’s not what I expected,” the first officer rubbed his chin, looking over the controls. “This vessel isn't built to handle it. It's uncharted territory, probably too shallow. But with the Captain's stubborn will, and my aggressive tenacity, we'll plough through.”

  “Don't think I haven't heard a word that's been said,” the Captain suddenly awoke; “I'm a restless sleeper who only keeps himself intoxicated to avoid harming my crew. Now, what's this about the headwaters?”

  “We're way off course,” the first officer took the wheel.

  “I see,” the Captain stretched, rising slowly from his chair, “and with the storm brewing we're being sent headlong into disaster!”

  “What can we do?” Clea cried.

  “Sorry if I alarmed you two,” the Captain took a gulp of vodka. “It's just your standard uncharted course, like a drama that has yet to be acted out. We have to play our roles and hope for the best. The parts, of course, are mapped out for us, almost predetermined; it's our actions that lead us astray. Anyway, I'm the world-worn, aging sea Captain, with an eye for wisdom, power, and stubborn pride. My first officer is the ambitious up-and-coming youth. Anxious to learn from me, to follow in my footsteps. Full of a certain life - a boyish optimism that I lost long ago to pessimism, bitterness, and half a bottle of Scotch. One day he'll be the ringmaster,” he paused to pat the first officer, smiling shyly. “And your wife, she's pretty much caught up in it. Victimized by circumstance, in her housecoat, she's the classic heroine. And you ...” the Captain roared, outstretching a hand towards Christopher, as the ship rolled violently, “well, it goes without saying - you're the headliner!”

  “So, we should just sit tight and pray for the best?” Christopher ventured.

  “Yeah,” the Captain sighed, “we can try that too.”

  “Look down at the forward deck!” the first officer called out.

  They raced to the windows, Clea leaving Christopher behind on the table, the Captain almost stumbling. They strained to see through the wind, rain, and ocean spray. But judging by the looks they exchanged, they all saw it. There was Christopher's other half, running wildly about, throwing papers into the wind, blind to the storm around him, whipped by wind and water, nearly washed away, pausing only to straighten his tie.

  “What is it?” Christopher called over, unable to bare the suspense. “What's going on?”

  “It's your body!” Clea cried, racing over and touching his cheek, unable to embrace him. “It really was on the forward deck! If only you could see it, flailing about madly; it's so unlike you. It's refreshing - even exciting!”

  The Captain, being the best versed for an emergency like this, immediately formed a plan of action.

  “Clea, Christopher,” he called their names, without ever being introduced, he was that wise, his third eye blinking every so often, although it usually kept closed when he drank, “you can trust me, as your Captain and a friend. Yes, it's strange, but I consider you two my friends. Believe me when I tell you I've been to sea for many years and my boat is full of seamen. My first officer will attest to that, because with all his accomplishments aboard this vessel, he's a ringer for me when I was young!”

  “It's probably true,” the first officer turned to them, and then back to the wheel.

  “Anyway,” the Captain continued, “to make a long story short, which is something I like to do when I'm drunk and lacking attention to detail, the situation is like this: the conditions out on that deck are terrible, with gale force winds, waves breaking over the railing, and poor visibility - a highly dangerous situation! So, Clea - since you've only got your housecoat on, I recommend strongly, as the Captain of this vessel, with several years experience at sea, that you wear a hat when you take Christopher out there to get his body back.”

  “But how will we find our way back?” Clea asked, as the Captain handed her Christopher's head, pushing her out the door.

  “I don't think this is the best laid plan,” Christopher expressed his concern, almost drowned out by the wind and rain.

  “Don't worry,” the Captain patted him on the head, “my first officer will climb up to the crow's nest and ring his bell.”

  “I will?” the first officer paused with his steering.

  “Yes,” the Captain continued, “ring your bell so they can find their way back.”

  The eye of the storm was upon them now, unwinding its rage, a mysterious but destructive force. Any man with a shred of common sense became filled with fear. Wind and rain pelted down on the control room windows. The ship, rocking back and forth, was plunging through the headwaters to an uncertain destination.

  “I don't know about this,” the first officer shook his head.

  “What?” the Captain hollered, the wind and rain roaring in through the door. “What's the matter now?”

  The first officer was silent, his face reddened. He looked down, unable to face the Captain.

  “Well, out with it!” the Captain hollered. “We don't have all night!”

  “Ringing my bell again, in front of that woman?” the first officer burst, shaking his head. “It doesn't seem right. I'm embarrassed. It was alright at first, she caught me off guard with her quick appearance, but now she might take it the wrong way. Everything's so serious now.”

  “Oh come on now,” the Captain rolled his eyes, “you're always ringing that thing when it's not really needed - at night, to some passing ship, knowing full well that you won't be seen. Or, even worse, you ring it without thinking or caring. This vessel depends on a good ringer. Now's your chance to truly prove yourself! Now get up there, ring that bell, with purpose and intent, and be proud - be a man! And take a raincoat.”

  “I never gave you this much trouble!” Christopher cried above the roaring wind and crashing waves, tucked secur
ely under Clea's arm. “You call this fun?”

  “Not at the moment,” she nearly fell over, caught by the wind and the slippery deck; “like anything, you have your ups and downs.”

  The body was elusive at best. Perhaps it sensed its approaching return to imprisonment, having been free for so long. Perhaps it somehow sensed the ringing, with the first officer now perched carefully atop the control room, and knew that something was up. Christopher hated the ringing almost as much as the sight of himself running wild, without control. But he longed for a union, to be one again. It was strange, watching his body run free. He gained a new perspective, to say the least. He was in a unique position to do so. He was able to think about things carefully, at least as carefully as possible, considering he was tucked beneath Clea's arm, dripping wet. He was able to watch Clea interact with his body, lashing out with her free arm, trying to grasp the soaking wet business suit that was a favourite of his. It was as though he was watching a bizarre home video, except this was much more immediate, more frantic, but not without its moments of humour and compassion. The body played with her hair, toyed with her housecoat. She laughed, even in the gale-force winds, water splashing everywhere. She had to drag it along like a child, sometimes cooperating, but usually not.

  Everything seemed new to the body and, needless to say, there was no such thing as social grace or etiquette. The body had few reservations about anything. It would disappear briefly, pulling away from Clea during a flash of lightning and a splash of waves across the deck. They called out to it, forgetting that it could not hear. But then, as suddenly as it disappeared, it would reappear in a potato sack, hopping along, racing past them to the stairs. Such shenanigans were really wearing thin, even at that early stage.

  Despite it all, they continued to press on towards the ringing, and the stairs leading up to the control room. The body was skipping one minute and caressing Clea the next. Christopher had to call off any potential moments of sudden, unexpected passion, reminding Clea of their urgency. He was surprised his body had managed to function this long without him. He was racked with questions. How his body kept the tie on he'll never know. His body was too preoccupied with the tie, trying desperately to straighten it amidst the wind and rain, slowing their progress considerably. Christopher silently swore an oath to wear a turtleneck on their next cruise. Looking away from his body, surveying the area as best he could from beneath Clea's arm, he saw his notes and money all over the deck, soaking wet, washing away. Flashes of lightening illuminated it all. Of course, Christopher's body was still very much aloof with regards to his thoughts and concerns, let alone the situation they were in.

  Through some effort, they found themselves forcing their way up the stairs, the ringing reaching an apex now as they approached. The door to the control room flung open and in they leaped, followed by fierce winds and a splash of water. They were soaked to the skin. The Captain was absorbed with his radio. Adjusting the various knobs and dials, it hummed and hissed, yet refused all incoming transmissions and stopped any from being sent. His patience was getting the best of him. The young couple looked on behind him, hoping to get a message through, hoping to be saved. The Captain shook his head fiercely, his eye glowing with anger, the radio hissing and humming. He brought his fist down on the radio, then tried to calm himself before things got serious.

  “You see,” he looked towards the couple, taking his seat, breathing deeply, pointing towards the radio, “this has been the bulk of the problem all along!”

  “Can it be repaired?” Clea asked, shivering. “Let Christopher look at it; he used to be good with things like that.”

  The Captain looked over at Christopher, still cradled in Clea's arm. His body ... well, she had to stand on it to stop it from running wild in the control room.

  “I'm willing to give it a try,” Christopher spoke up, winking at the Captain.

  The door flung open once again and the first officer stumbled in, soaking wet, shivering, but with a big smile across his face. He felt tremendously accomplished and adequate. He had never rang for so long before. The fact he was nervous - with the storm upon them and so much responsibility placed on his shoulders, or around his waist - did not prevent him from carrying out his duty to the best of his ability. And he had been a success!

  “Excellent work,” the Captain commended him. The first officer nodded shyly, lighting a cigarette, “but there's no time for patting everyone on the back. There's a crisis at hand. Obviously, we have to solve this problem before we can make any headway. ”

  The Captain looked over to Christopher, still cradled in Clea's arms. She was wiping his brow, which made it difficult to pay close attention to the Captain.

  “I think you know what this means, Christopher,” the Captain said.

  “Yes,” Christopher answered, pausing to think everything over, hoping to be honest without being embarrassed “I've been too long without. It's hard for me to describe what I've been through, how I felt, but it was so jarring, so eye opening, that it left a profound impression on me. I realise now that I must keep a careful balance between mind and body,” at this point, he looked up to Clea, who was smiling, “because if one becomes separated from the other, chaos erupts.” Christopher paused. The Captain, listening intently, nodded approvingly. The first officer puffed away in the corner, arms crossed, trying to keep warm. Clea gently caressed Christopher's forehead. “I don't know what else to say,” he looked up at her, continuing. “I've been through enough. I've felt complete emptiness, within myself and between you and me. We were drifting apart without even knowing it. It took some unusual circumstances to get us to realize our folly, or my folly, but now I'm ready. I've learnt my lesson - the hard way! I want to be complete again. I feel as if things will be much better this time. I'm sorry I lost my head.”

  “It's funny,” Clea smiled, “but everything you and I have been through - it was worth it. I'm glad you're back, and having seen a different side of you, I know there is hope for us.”

  “Captain,” Christopher called over to him, feeling very accomplished, “let's get that radio fixed and get things underway!”

  “What do you mean?” the Captain sprang forward in his chair, his eyes wide, sweat rolling down his brow. Seeing the young couple giving him odd looks, he stared briefly into space, shook his head, and got up. He stretched, twisting back and forth, and then swung his arms around. Stopping, he took a deep breath. “I had a bad dream just now,” he said.

  The Captain was always a man to rush to duty. He could identify a situation that needed his assistance and put a plan in motion immediately, even if he just woke up - from bad dreams, no less. While the Captain and the first officer restrained Christopher's body, Clea put his head back on. It took her some time, a little twisting and turning, but she soon had it on straight. She stepped away, as did the Captain and the first officer. Christopher, now together, complete, quivered slightly. He winced, his shoulders shrugging. It took him awhile to get back to the old routine. His feet flopped around a bit, his arms flung out uncontrollably, but he was basically fully functional. His first gesture was to take Clea into his arms, hugging her tightly. Then he immediately set about fixing his tie.

  “Well,” the Captain slapped him on the shoulder, “now that were all together, how about trying to fix the radio?”

  While Clea, the Captain, and the first officer watched the storm rage around the ship, Christopher set to work. In the past, he was well acquainted with electronics and gadgetry, but now he was a bit rusty; he hoped his memory would not fail him. Soon, the static bursts and deep, almost guttural, humming took the form of voices, ever so faint. The lightning caused break-ups, but it was obvious he was having some success.

  “Mayday, mayday,” Christopher attempted transmission, adjusting various knobs and dials, a high pitched whine filling the control room. “I think I've repaired it enough to send a message through,” he called to the others.

  “Let me try,” the Captain raced over
, grabbing the receiver from him. “I'm keen on these sorts of things. I'm the Captain!”

  With his ear pressed against the radio, the Captain made his plea for help. Throughout the static, humming, and moments of dead air, a voice could be heard. The Captain nodded, as the voice continued.

  “The storm is coming to an end!” he turned to Christopher and Clea, holding each other tightly. The first officer breathed a sigh of relief. He'd had more than enough bell ringing to do him for the rest of the week.

  “Wait!” the Captain pressed his ear back against the radio. “We're approaching a harbour!”

  “Everything will be alright now,” Christopher kissed Clea.

  “The way is clear for us,” the Captain motioned for the first officer to come closer. “Type in these coordinates. Check the compass and set the wheel.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” the officer saluted, running to the controls.

  “The storm is clearing faster than expected!” the Captain continued to listen to the reports. “Wave action is dying down, the moon is shining through, visibility is excellent, and the harbour is very close now. It's almost too good to be true!”

  Christopher and Clea were overjoyed, almost dancing, caught up in the warmth of their tight embrace.

  “But wait, that's not all!” the Captain cried, waving his hand at the couple. “Did one of you enter a lottery?”

  “Yes,” Clea cried, grabbing Christopher's collar, jumping up and down, “yes, yes I bought us a ticket before we left! I can't believe this! I can't believe this is happening to us!”

  “Well you didn't win,” the Captain shook his head, “but we'll get home safely.”