The Odyssey

As the sea tosses the Odyssey between its mountainous waves like a ping-pong ball, it's all I can do to keep one hand on the rudder. She's in bad shape, and I'm not much better. Ugly, purple-blue bruises stain my arms and sides from the amount of times I've been thrown against the edge of the boat.

With wind stinging me with its spiteful embrace, and rain blurring my vision like tears, I can hardly see a foot in front of me. Although it wouldn't be much if I could; the whole ocean from the waves ahead the Odyssey to the horizon is frothed up in a frenzy of movement, and everything looks the same.

Another wave crashes against the side of the boat, and she tips sideways. My legs slip out from under me. I'm hanging, arms stretched high over my head as I hold onto the rudder. The Odyssey is almost still, stuck in the uncertain midpoint between falling right-way-up or upside-down.

I clench my eyes shut and breathe in deeply. My stomach clenches as I try to hold in the air I'll need when the boat gets overturned.

The vicious wind assaulting my ears stops me from hearing the wave that turns us over. My head hits the deck. I lose my grip on the rudder. My senses flood with water.

I try to keep a clear head without opening my eyes. Hopefully, the hundreds of storms I've been in before have adequately prepared me for this. It's what I think every time, but I never know until the storm has passed and I'm still alive.

Under the surface, the current's still the same. It tosses me from one wave to another. I grope around for a hand-hold – I must know this deck enough to find one. But within the rage of the storm, I can't place my thoughts steadily enough to get a clear picture of the deck above water, and I plan to spend as little time as possible studying it from below.

After what was probably minutes rather than hours – but was, in either case, too long – I manage to grip something. It's a kind of pole, thick so that I have to use both hands to hold on.

My lungs raise a tentative whine, a plea for my mouth to open. Not yet, I tell them. Previous storms have taught me I'll have to wait until the fury is over before I upturn my boat – in the meantime, I'll have to find my way onto the 'bottom' of the vessel to catch a breath, and try not to slip off until the storm has passed.

I claw my way to the edge. My eyes are stinging from the exposure to salt water and from how tightly I'm clamping them together. There's a flame alight in my lungs, and I fight the urge to open my mouth for just one second to put the fire out.

I grab the end of the keel and try to push myself up, but it's too wet and slippery to get a firm hold. The waves slap me against the boat. My mouth opens involuntarily to groan in pain, and I clamp it shut. Too early, or too late. Water has managed to creep inside my mouth, but air hasn't.

Clinging desperately to the edge of the keel, I wrap my legs around the rope that’s always coiled on the end of the deck, not daring to open my eyes. I clench my knees together and try to pull the rope up to me. It slips. I only just catch it with my feet. Suppressing a yelp, I force myself to remain calm. Panicking could make me drown.

Trying a different tactic, I use my boots to spread the rope out. I have to let go of the keel with one hand so I can hold it. I hesitate, then shake the reluctance out of my head. Indecision could make me drown too.

My lungs burn as if they’re packed with ice. My left hand slips, and I take the opportunity to grasp the rope. Pulling it upwards, I grab the keel again, this time holding the rope between two fingers. A lull in the waves lets me take a shaky breath. Just enough to keep me going.

I try again with my right hand. Letting go of the keel, I grip the rope between two fingers. I fiddle with it until I've got a good grip, then pull my hand up to grasp the keel again. This is always the hardest part. So far, I've always managed it, but there's a first time for everything.

If this doesn't work, I'm dead. I can't help the thought. I shove it away, recalling the face of my wife and daughter. I need to live, at least for them.

Gathering my courage, I pull my hands up, bringing the rope with me. It goes taut, and I stop myself breathing a sigh of relief. It would only waste breath.

Tugging the rope upwards, I haul myself onto the bottom of the Odyssey, and allow myself a breath. My lungs are still burning, but it's bearable, for now. Only one more job.

Taking a deep breath, I lay on my front and force my head under water. I don't waste time tying a double anchor bend around the closest rail of my boat. Finishing it, I drag my head out of the water and quickly tie the other end of rope around my waist in a bowline knot.

I pull myself back out of the water and treat myself to a well-earned breath. A few drops of salt water splash past my open lips, but at least I'm not drowning anymore.

Lying uncomfortably on my front, I stretch my arms and legs out to improve balance. I can feel my face turning red from being pressed against the keel, so I turn it sideways. One eye is too squashed to open, the other is squinted for maximum balance of sight and clarity, given the waves that continue to assault me.

Until the storm passes, I'm stuck like this. Afterwards, I can safely overturn the Odyssey – I can only hope it won't happen before I've untied myself. But for now, all I can do is wait.