Stowaway

I’m at the stern, plotting my escape. My latest plan is to attach a lifebuoy to my waist and simply leap off the edge, yelling Geronimo. I watched a film recently where the Apache leader yells his name as he leaps from a high cliff into a river. It seems appropriate. Perhaps I could yell Harry, but I'm not convinced it would have the same effect.

I wonder about the height of the fall. I’m concerned that if Celeste should happen by (she promenades the deck at this time of the morning and the likelihood is high), I shall have to put on a display ... execute a swallow dive, or something. The thought fills me with anxiety. I peer over the edge at the unfathomable depths and fixate on the froth churned by the blades of the engine. Perhaps not this end.

Of course, one has to take several other conditions into account: the direction of the prevailing wind, possible currents, the distance to land and, not least of all, the presence of man-eating sharks. I finger the newly-formed scab at my throat. Exactly how much blood does it take to send a shark into a man-eating frenzy? It goes without saying I've no answer to these questions.

Above me, the groan of mast and the idle flap of sail suggest a mild breeze. A north-westerly. So, there’s one thing I know, after all. I suppose you learn things from watching these sea-types.

I’m standing like this, lost in thought, when a great ruckus comes from the forward deck. Unable to reach consensus with myself on whether to pursue my latest plan, I succumb to curiosity and venture forward on the port side.

I push through a throng of startled shipmates, to find first officer Elliot F. Emery interrogating a small bundle of dirty laundry. On closer inspection I see the laundry is, in fact, a small lad. His face is blackened by soot and he stands, cap in hand, unafraid eyes fixed on his tormentor. There is something of the artful dodger about this lad.

Emery is all strident bluster. ‘Answer the infernal question!’

No response from the lad.

‘Perhaps a keel-hauling will refresh your memory.’ It’s clear Emery’s bluffing, but his arrogant manner annoys me. Before I know it, I’ve stepped forward.

‘Is this not a matter for the captain?’ I can hear the waver in my voice.

There is silence as all eyes swivel to me. It occurs to me, while I watch the colour rise up Emery’s neck, that the kid and I are not dissimilar. We’re both trying to escape. Here I am, formulating a plan to desert the ship and here’s this stowaway, risking life and limb to make it aboard. … what a little fool he is.

What a fool I am. I watch Emery’s lips move ... but before he has the chance to respond, a familiar shadow falls across the deck.

‘What's all the commotion?’ the distinctive voice of the captain booms and Emery seethes. I know I’ve not heard the end of this.