Vicissitude

The air on the vessel is thick; with each breath, the heat of the sea invades the lungs and taints the ridges of the throat. A woman, too young to be a child but too old to be beautiful, sits at the bow of the fishing boat, her feet nestled underneath her splintered seat. Behind her, struggling to stand against the vicious coastal air, a man pulls at two ropes connected to the boat’s sail. It’s patchy and discolored from years at sea. With each gust of wind, the yellowing fabric undulates, pulsating feverishly.

The woman grips the boat's sides as the sail spins around its post, whirling in its dance with an unseen partner. A frayed cord snaps away from the sail’s rigging and lashes across her cheek before she can duck away. She moves as close to the boat's tip as she dares, her bare feet getting tangled in the spare rope coiled along the bottom of the wood.

Around them, the sea is as restless as the wind. The ocean’s color morphs from a crystal blue to a dark shade of gray, battering their boat with enough fierceness to strip the crystal white coat of paint from its sides. The woman’s toes curl around the ropes inundated with seawater. She looks back at the man, who is leaning back and pulling at the sail, ripping it from its dance and forcing it to his will. He pays no attention to the woman.

She looks away. The waves are splashing more water into the boat. It seems to lose its warm Gulf touch as soon as it hits her feet. Bending down, carefully spreading her legs to make room for her stomach, she cups her hands and begins bailing water from the boat. Her hands get tangled in the rope around her ankles—it's slimy and coats her hands with salt and sticky off-white foam.

The man laughs, a deep sound that somehow carries over the hissing wind. “That won’t do much good.”

She pauses in her work but doesn’t look back at him.

“We’ll sink if I stop.”

“Not in this boat. It won’t sink as long as I steer us. Come, grab the tiller and keep it straight.”

She obeys slowly, carefully standing as the boat rocks. She crouches, hands on either side of the vessel as she crawls her way to the man. The rocking motion slows her down further, as does the sail that tries to break away from the man’s grip every few seconds. Her stomach scratches against the thwart, and she must quickly decide whether to risk being hit in the head by the sail or continue to drag her belly against the wooden plank. She chooses the former, moving quickly past the man, nearly tipping over the edge of the boat before grabbing the rod of the tiller and heaving herself back inside. Her knees crash against the stern, and her hands wrap around the tiller. The man takes the sail’s ropes with one hand and uses the other to slap her vulnerable and upturned rear.

“There’s the way, there’s the way. Keep it steady. We’ll reach the shore before dusk. There may be some men selling fish that we can have for supper.”

The woman’s soft hands have trouble keeping a grip on the slick wooden rod. Her knees dig into the wood as she tries to crouch lower into the back of the boat. Where was the wind taking them? To another shore, another place, another town dependent on the fish harvested from the crystal waters. The ocean swells under them. Does it feel when its treasure is taken from it? Is that why it thrashes and beats them?

“Hold it straight, woman!” The man’s curt voice acts as a spur. The woman regrips the tiller, splinters carving into her flesh. Small red rivulets trail across the wood before being washed away. “Hold it, or it won’t go straight. It’s not hard to hold it. If it weren’t for this wind, I could keep the sail and steer us. I could.”

The woman says nothing.

“Don’t let up on it,” the man says, not unkindly. “It’ll hurt, especially to hands as virgin as yours, but the pain will pass, and it will make you stronger. That’s a family saying. They are harsh, but they will do you good.”

The tiller tries to slip from her hands again. She rises slightly and cages the wood between her thighs; the extra pressure stops it from thrashing so much. She does not want to think about the new family. She does not want to think about the ocean now separating her from her blood. She does not want to think about how they had left with nothing but the clothes on their backs and her father’s prized vessel. She does not want to think of anything.

Yet she wonders what job the man will take in this new place. Fishing was in his blood (it was in hers as well, but that was a job for brothers). She knew he could kill a shark and harvest its meat. She knew he would rip the bones from a fish and string it into a necklace. She had seen him beat floundering snappers with a club and leave their scales a broken, bloody mess. How strange, to relate to such a simple creature.

“This is my boat,” the man continued.

It is not.

“…and when we arrive, I will catch a thousand fish on it. I will strip their scales and drape you in them. A dress from the sea.”

A dress of blood and sweat and death.

“You will wear it for me. You will dance in the moonlight and shimmer and glow, and everyone will know you are mine.” The man looks back at her with eyes as dark as the ocean around them. “You will wear it for me.” He barely seems to struggle against the wind. The sail, the boat, and even nature obey his command. The woman grips her tiller, wondering if she could break it apart and drown all three of them. The man drops the ropes for a moment, allowing the sail to flap against the wind. He turns, grabs her jaw, and forces her head to turn toward him, a movement that immediately causes her neck to cramp. He did not give her time to adjust, and the woman didn’t dare release her hold on the tiller. His grip was nearly as tight as her own.

“Yes. I will wear it.”

“And you will dance for me.”

“I will dance.”

The man lets go of her and grabs the ropes once more. Within moments the sail is back to its rigid form. The talk was done. They sail on in silence, the humid air hushing any unsaid words and choking the white-tipped sea.