Biting Into Beach Sand

Summer 1908. The ocean was a dream. Glinting emerald waves with pearlescent seafoam. It quivered under the harsh breeze. The Cassandra was a boon of a ship, born from Parisan hands with its elegant sharpenings and fine stained wood, golden accents glinting under the harsh sun. The boat swayed in the water urging the sailors to hurry atop it, urging them to take to the sea with a desperation. They were set to sail for Greece. To collect a large shipment of olives to aid in overcoming the recent drought. Liam carried two bags over his shoulder. One, his own. The other belonging to the gruff Captain Marcellus Finch, who barked orders as he marched atop the deck. He had a ruddy finger pointed at his crew. "All on deck. Hoist the sails! Free the bloody knots! We're catching this wind, I beg of yee." Liam hastily grabbed an apple from atop one of the food crates, he managed to nab it just before it was carried away by a harried crewman. He took his position at the side of the first pole, falling to the floor so he could begin to untie the lowest knots. He bit into the apple, leaving a large, tooth marked gap in his wake. It was summer sweetness across his tongue. With promises of good fortune, and happy, sunny days in the Mediterranean.

Autumn 1908. Four months in without an inch of land in sight. The crew was beginning to itch under their skin. A storm had swept them up just as they could see the soft speck of Greece in the distance. A mirage it had been for them the moment the thunder had bellowed. They'd had to change course, a complete 90° shift for two weeks. Waiting for the winds to stop rumbling overhead. The food rations were beginning to worsen. Most of the remaining meat turning sour. Liam missed the blazing heat of summer. The cool wind against his skin made a current of foreboding run through him. "Eat up lads," Cook Gangles said as he went around with his clanging pot of porridge, "Mornin' fresh and so is de pap." He filled everyone's bowl with false cheer, pouring the grainy, cream sludge out of his ladle with a splatter. Liam wiped some off his cheek and brought it to his tongue. Thick. Tastless. Like beach sand and slightly off milk. He ate it begrudgingly. Missing sweet summer apples and the warm, comforting hands of his mother. But he was doing this for her, so he could go to sleep every night with a full stomach and warm flushed cheeks. He finished his porridge.

Winter 1908. The storm hadn't stopped, it had been playing them a fool with its lie of stillness. It hadn't died, only paused for breath, and they'd returned to their route with a false belief of safety. Just as they'd begun to cheer, shaking one another in glee, "Greece! There it is! I see the shore!" It had taken a large gulp and swallowed them up. Liam hadn't had a good meal in the last six months. He'd become used to the tugging in his intestines. He'd thought that was pain. He'd believed that watching a half-filled bowl slowly empty with each bite was fear. He'd been wrong. This - caught in a storm the size of Niagara Falls, the wind burning against your skin, body turning stiff and numb, freezing alive, water choking you as you stand, your legs being swept out by waves the size of the walls of your childhood room, your ribs hitting the ledge hard enough that you can taste your heartbeat, staring down into the dark swirling darkness, knowing that she's trying to swallow you up - this is fear. Visceral, all comsuming fear. As if the ocean is taunting you. Waiting for you to beg, for mercy, for death. Waiting to eat you whole.

Spring 1908. They've been sailing with eleven members. No navigator. No captain. No cook. They, along with the other 33 crewmen, had been washed overboard by the greatest storm to meet the Aegean Sea in the last 500 years. The remainders hadn't a clue where they are. But the food is lasting fine with the few of them. They reach an island and after nine months on sea, they're all rushing for a piece of it. It appears to be empty, mostly. They catch a wild boar unexpected, slay it with the wildness of eleven men, on shaking sea legs, fed only on dried rations. Liam is served a slice of pig the width of his torso. The meat sizzles on his tongue, sinks into his tastebuds. It itches at his gullet and oils his oesophagus. Before building a hearth in his stomach and settling a home there.

Summer 1909. The island is a strange place to call home, but it's what it becomes. The men start building huts from dried leaves and broken branches. They hunt the boars which run rampant and after they lose a man to one of the wild beasts, they start knitting nets from the boat ropes and pull fish from the ocean. The island has many fruits. Soft, sour oranges with pale yellow centers that make your tongue itch. Sweet peaches with beards on their skin and hard pips inside them. They flutter on his lips, dance on the roof of his palate. They taste like love and freedom. He eats too many of them one night and falls asleep crying. When he wakes, everyone has dissappeared. The beach is empty where he's fallen asleep by the coals. It's a cold night. He drags his lethargic body up and makes his way to the huts. They're empty as well. Ornaments and clothes thrown a few places under them. Liam realizes he's alone, it grows a heaviness in his chest. He runs to the shoreline, where the tall coconut trees are. The height of the hill makes his thighs burn but he pushes through the ache. It's no use though, by the time he reaches the top, the Cassandra is a small brown acorn in the distance of rolling sea. He screams that night, all until dawn. Until all the birds have flown away from him and his throat burns as if he'd rubbed it with sea water.

Autumn 1909. He finds a lake, but there's something wrong with the water. It has a strong smell to it. Pungent. Bitter. He still drinks it, it's better than the back breaking headaches and dry thirst the saltwater gives him. One evening, just as the sun is about to set, he goes to fetch water to boil on the coals. There's a figure at the edge of the lake. Hunched over with a dark, straw-woven cloak on. His legs are bare and layered with scars. He has no shoes or underpants. His hair and beard are wild, uncut bushes. Liam has been wishing for someone. Anyone. And yet, at the sight of this man, he holds his breath. His whole body screaming at him to - stay hidden. He cups a hand over his mouth and slowly backs up. The figure is lapping wildly at the water, swinging at it. Arms thrashing. His movements spook a sparrow who tweets before flying up high. The man turns at the sound. He faces Liam. Beady eyes glinting, head tilting curiously. Liam feels his heart sink to his bladder. Thump. Thump. Thump. The man licks his lips, filthy yellow teeth edging their way out. Liam drops his pot. The loud clank startling them both out of their reverie. The man lets out a high-pitched happy bellow. "Boyyyy! It's a boyyyy!"

Liam takes off running. The sand flies out under him. His clothes feel like soft petals as they flutter around him. There's hard footsteps behind him. Clapping and grunts. He doesn't know where he's running to. He just needs to get away. To hide. The moment the shoreline and coconut trees come into view, a heavy weight collides with his back. Sending him tumbling through the sand.

He pushes against the weight roughly, with scrambling hands. The man above him laughs loudly and begins thumping his fists down on Liam's back with a triumphant roar. He pushes Liam's head into the sand until his own blond hair is choking him. The figure stills above him. Acidic breath reaches his ear. "Boyyy," he rings, voice accented and deep. Liam pushes up once more and the man digs his yellowing teeth into Liam's shoulder hard enough that the ball in his joint rolls. Liam screams, his shoulder quaking like a sea storm. Blitzing with electrifying pain. Next is his ear. And the top layer of skin on his cheek. The wind is screaming. Crying wet, bloody tears. He wishes he'd drowned in that storm. He wishes the ocean would've had him instead.

"I've been looking for you," the man screeches.

Liam dreams of drowning. In cool ocean waters, the harsh sun beating down on the top of his head. His mother's laughter in the background. The taste of sweet summer apples on his tongue.