Deimos, the Queen of the Sea
The salt and sea have filled my lungs and I know the waves have taken me at last. I had thought at the end there would be panic but – calm. I let go. I am becoming the depths. All of my terror had been in the anticipation of the end. Now that it is here, there is just the darkness and the low rumble of the ocean above and the ocean below.
There is a sharp tug at my neck – toward the surface? It is the last thing I feel before my mind lets go.
My eyes open to a small room. I’m in dry clothes under a warm white blanket. It hurts to breathe, my throat is parched. I focus first on a small bedside table, a skinny white lamp, a clear glass of clean water, a simple plastic folding chair. The familiar rocking of the ocean. The white walls, devoid of any decoration. Soft sunlight streaming in through large windows. Finally, my attention falls on the door and a figure standing by it. He notices that I am awake, wordlessly gives an arrhythmic knock, and is let out of the room.
He returns with a woman, grayed and staid, and the door is closed behind them. “You’re a lucky one,” she remarks as she seats herself and puts a hand to my head. “It was touch and go for a while. How are you feeling?”
I try to respond but my throat is closed. I give a nod and a watery look.
She sits me up and puts the glass in my hands, lifting it slowly to my lips. “Take your time. We’re glad to have you with us. For now, rest and rehydrate.”
As she is caring for me, my eyes are on the man by the door. He is stolid, accustomed to waiting. His eyes have a sunken quality. He retains an air of preoccupation, as though his mind is clawed at by some problem and only occasionally breaks free to gain awareness of the present.
A pulse check, a shine of a light in my eyes. Satisfied that I have passed her cursory examination, she stands and taps out the same irregular knock at the door. From the bed I can’t see who opens it. “See that this one is looked after,” she commands with a jerk of her head back toward me. “He will need water and fresh clothes. I’m to take Émile down below for inspection.”
At this, the figure against the wall becomes fully present. His eyes widen and he begins to stammer, “But Doctor, surely I am needed here to make sure our new guest is comfortable.”
“I’m sorry, Émile, captain’s orders” she dismisses with an air of apprehension as a rough hand emerges from the doorway and grabs his arm. “You know how important this is. Please come with me. Our guest will be well cared for.”
Émile is pulled away with continued protest, which grows quiet as the doctor closes the door behind her. Exhaustion overtakes me as waves rock me into unconsciousness.
The light is still strong, though no longer pouring in directly through the cabin windows, when I awaken. No one is waiting in the room with me. I make an effort to swing my legs out of bed, holding myself steady until the spinning calms to a gentle rocking. Slowly, carefully, I stand and make my way to the door. I give the handle a try and find it locked, so I timidly knock. The door is opened slightly by a stout bear of a man. He regards me like a dog looking at an ant, with a curious and barely suppressed destructive instinct.
“Don’t scare the man,” a velvety voice implores from beyond. “After all he’s been through? Let’s meet him shall we?”
The bear stands aside and I’m allowed to pass to a deck where two people are reclining. They look so much alike I have the immediate impression that if they are not twins, they are certainly sister and brother.
“Please, sit!” The woman smiles at me. “I am Safira. This is Valentin. We’re very happy to have you here.”
Valentin, emotionless, gives me an evaluating look before speaking. “Yes. Happy.”
“Show a little compassion, Val! It must have been terrible out there on the open water.”
I take a seat at the foot of a chaise and assess the siblings. They give the air of old money, relaxed inbred indulgence and command. This is their boat, the Deimos, some rare megayacht that has survived all these years on a world at sea. It is unusual to meet people in such good health, whose cheeks aren’t sallow and bony, who have the easy air of someone who has never been prey. Even Valentin, as serious and unamused as he is, seems like a man who is satisfied in his life. Such satisfaction as I have never known.
Safira breaks the calm silence. “‘Fortunato’ – I’m sure you have your own name but I will call you this, I think it is apt – what were you doing in the middle of nothing and nowhere?”
I want to open up. I want to talk about the treacherous salvage job, the storm, the days of floating adrift as my hope became waterlogged and eventually I was overwhelmed. But I say nothing. I am overwhelmed by just being alive, and not only alive but here, on a boat that’s not falling apart, with rooms that aren’t crammed with people on the verge of sickness.
We do talk, Safira and I, and she is polite enough to not pry.
“Everyone works here,” Valentin interrupts the warm conversation. “You will assist the maintenance crew.”
“Val, look at the poor man! He is still in recovery. He can’t take on such dangerous work!”
Valentin considers a second. “It has been a while since we have had a valet. Perhaps that is lighter work for you to start with.”
“Oh, I do miss Francis so.” Safira’s gaze drifts to the horizon. “He was delicious, that man. A richness of the soul.”
Valentin stands. “Come, ‘Fortunato,’ I will introduce you to the crew.”
The crew of thirty, almost to a person, share the same well fed, healthy quality as the siblings, but not their easy joy. From the cleaning to the maintenance staff, they are terse, focused on their work, and aren’t overly friendly with me. Not hostile: just functional, perhaps a bit stressed as though they have too much work and not enough time. It is an attitude that is familiar enough to be comfortable. I have no complaints, safe and warm and dry.
While being shown around the galley, I ask about Émile, wanting to thank him for looking after me following my rescue. The cook, a thickset man named Leopold, pauses, his fingers resting on the butcher board.
“A good man.” A sigh. “He didn’t pass inspection. He is resting below now. He will disembark when we make our next cargo stop.”
“What does that mean, ‘inspection’?” I ask.
Leopold meets my eyes. “It’s important that everyone on board is healthy. It’s how we stay afloat. The Santoros will take care that all their crew stay in peak condition.”
“I was just with him, though. He seemed healthy enough.”
“Our doctor – Eva – she is very thorough.”
Leopold moves to show me how the serving dishes are stored, and that was all that was said on the matter.
That night, the siblings – the Santoros – invited me to dinner with the captain. I am honored, but exhausted, and spend much of the time in silence taking small bites of the exotic meal: shaved steak and wild long grain rice with blanched green beans and carrots. I marvel at the steak, its rich flavor, its juices, its deep burgundy hue. There is wine, deep and red like the meat.
Safira senses my amazement. “Welcome to the good life,” she smiles. Under the table, she gives my thigh a playful squeeze.
Captain Gallo, a wiry, keen, and weathered man, is all business. Much of the dinner conversation takes place between Valentin and Gallo, who are deeply engaged in the operational details of the vessel: our position, our provisions, the next cargo flotilla we’re likely to encounter and when.
“We need to take on more able crew,” Gallo mentions. “Everyone is spread a little thin. The stress, it’s hard on all of us.”
Valentin agrees, and approves a stopover at the closest flotilla. “Perhaps we can trade off some dead weight as well.” He casts a shriveling look in my direction, as though I don’t quite match his idea of able bodied.
After dinner, my mind is heavy with the meal and drink. I begin to head below to my assigned bunk, but a hand on my shoulder holds me up.
Safira is there, her red lips curved into her ever present wry smile. “Don’t think too much about Val, my Fortunato. He seems a hard man, I know, but he keeps us in calm waters.” I nod and turn, but she holds fast. “You’re fine, Fortunato,” she assures me. “I want you here.”
Days pass. For dinners with the captain, I am no longer an honored guest, merely staff. I keep the glasses filled and barely absorb what is said. My own meals I take with the crew, who eat their rations of meat and grains in a weary silence before returning to their duties or retiring below.
The days above deck, in good weather, have a less oppressive air. Safira is happy enough, it seems, to have someone other than her brother to talk with. She remarks often on my improving health and makes sure that I am getting enough to eat.
When the flotilla is sighted, any crew that is not concerned with making ready for landing assembles on the deck. The same grim calm of our mealtimes is present as the flotilla draws closer, but carries with it a lightness, a relief. Some of the crew even betray a slight smile as the ropes are thrown and the gangplank is extended. Others remain stony faced, forlorn and frowning.
The flotilla is the Santa Marta, one of many that now drift across the ocean, and though this is my first time here, it feels familiar. I’m glad that I’m not obliged to stay. I have spent enough time in similar situations that I feel I almost know my way around the interconnected cargo vessels that serve as both storage and overcrowded living space, a harbor and a home and a hell. Leopold and I cross rusting metal bridges to haggle over grain prices from a hold near a makeshift garden on a retired garbage scow.
“Where do we go for the meat?” I ask while loading a dolly with sacks of rice. I had been on the lookout for livestock, but saw not even a hint of a chicken coop.
“Captain and Valentine are seeing to that. Make sure nothing rips.”
As we arrive back at the Deimos, we see twenty some workers lined up on the docs. The doctor and captain walk among them, asking questions and taking notes. Valentin, bodyguard in tow, stands nearby conversing with some local leader, the cleanest of the dirty men. Two of the new workers are summoned to help us load our stock of dry goods. The rest file on board behind us, except for one who follows Eva below deck. We depart the Santa Marta shortly thereafter.
Dinner in the crew mess that night is lively, with conversation filling the air. I don’t know whether it is the addition of new faces, the respite offered by a day at port, or the extra ration of steak, but the light spirits are a welcome relief from the wearying, somber meals of the previous weeks.
The next day I am bringing a light lunch of fresh fruit and sangria to the Santoros when there are shouts from the bridge deck: a ship has been spotted on a bearing to meet our course. Valentin stands when he hears the captain shouting his name. “Liberators, Mr. Santoro! Headed straight for us!” Valentin looks toward the foreign ship and swears.
“Well, ‘Fortunato’, time to earn your keep. Come with me. Safira, get below.”
Safira begins to protest, but Valentin is firm. “Can you imagine what will happen to us if those monsters get on board? I will not surrender to pirates.”
Valentin and I, along with his bodyguard and a small squad of senior crew, march to a cabin I’ve never entered. Inside, there is a row of gun safes. Val opens one and his bodyguard begins distributing rifles to the crew.
“Take no chances,” commands Valentin. “We will protect this crew and we will all live.” Instead of a gun, he hands me a bag with ammunition. “Keep us supplied. I’m counting on you.”
When we return topside, the enemy vessel has drawn impossibly close. The crew take up positions on the railings and start firing at the men throwing grapples on our deck. Everything is noise and confusion. I hear men calling, yelling, and I do not know if it is from rage or need. It is impossible for me to move: I am pinned by shock and fear.
Val’s bodyguard is in my face, speaking to me for the first time, shouting, “Move! Move!” And then he is down, on the deck and bleeding. His assailant is on our boat, keeping low and moving toward us. I grab the bodyguard’s weapon and fire. I hit the attacker square in the chest and he falls screaming at my feet.
His eyes, wide and searching, find me. He coughs and blood sprays from his mouth. He grabs my shoulder, wetly whispers, “We could have saved you.” He shudders violently, throws his head back, and is gone.
The noise and chaos are receding. Our crew are reining the grapples in, extending a plank to the marauding vessel. The bodyguard is getting back to his feet, his left hand squeezing his side. Valentin helps him up and evaluates the wound. “Just a graze. You’ll live.” He turns to me, “Good work. Let’s go and see what we can liberate from the Liberators.” He holds his hand out for the weapon and I surrender it.
I accompany a small group to the Liberator vessel. While the others sweep the cabins for stragglers, I find the hold. I am thinking of Leopold, how he was remarking on our dwindling supply of fresh citrus, which wasn’t available at Santa Marta. I am thinking of Safira, who hasn’t had coffee in weeks. I tear open crates and find some lean dry goods, mostly flour and rice. Another crate is all papers, pamphlets. “The Scourge of the Ocean,” they read. “DANGER. BEWARE of job opportunities that are too good to be true. We are losing good people from our cargo communities, where everyone is valuable. Our people are being stolen! Those who return are telling terrible tales of exploitation, misery, and murder! Protect yourself! Protect your family! Protect your cargo community!”
“We’re all clear up here,” Valentin is at the door with two men behind him. “What have you found?” He takes the paper from my hand and scans it with a sneer. “Rubbish and rot. Load up what you can. Our charges our set. We need to leave.”
There are three crates worth taking on. As I finish hauling the last on board, I look up to find the faces of Valentin and Eva. “The good doctor here tells me you never had a full inspection. We must take care of you at once.” Two men grab my arms just above the elbows and gently compel me below to the medical berth.
“I feel fine,” I tell Eva as she takes my temperature. “I’m recovering very well.”
“Mr. Santoro insists we take care of you, I’m afraid.” Her face is a mask of professional calm. She is injecting something into my shoulder. “Just relax. This will be over soon.” The men lift me to my feet and escort me down the hall to another hold with only a metal table in the center, metal shelves along the sides. Dingy walls. A stained tile floor with a drain. It smells like meat and copper. My head is swimming, my limbs numb. They lay me down on a metal table and tighten a strap across my chest.
Leopold enters. He is carrying his leather knife roll and will not meet my eyes. “Oh, my young friend,” he dismally sighs. “Not so fortunate, it would seem.”
He is selecting a knife. I am growing cold, drowning once more, sinking deeper and deeper below the darkness that is creeping from the corners of my vision. There is a sound of metal scraping on metal, over and over and over. It rings above the low rumble of the engine until both sounds fade and I am floating again, peaceful and still.
Tasting Notes
This one was slated for October, and I could cite various reasons that kept it from going out the door (busy with work, busy with family, disoriented by election results, distracted by holidays — take your pick, they’re all valid excuses), the truth of it is that I’m not an incredibly disciplined writer who is easily distracted and it just took me a long time to get this thing from concept to execution.
The playlist has been in the can since September, with minor tweaks and replacements as I encountered more tunes in the vibe and made some tasteful swaps to keep this thing under a running time of — lord almighty — four and a half hours. Far longer than my own attention span, certainly, so hopefully this accompanies you well over a long holiday drive or a mid-winter yacht party.
The vibe, more or less, is “apocalyptic yacht rock” with several apologies to some fine artists would probably feel something between bemusement and outrage at being paired or included with the soundtracks to so many coke-fueled ‘80s debauched soirees.
Why this? Why now? Why such lightheartedness, such camp? Everything seems inappropriate, and maybe this just fits me now because I feel a bit lost at sea. I honestly don’t understand the country I live in, which gives so much power to self-interested megalomaniacs, which praises rugged individuality but holds no high regard for those who express their individuality in a way that upsets expectations or subverts the status quo. I feel a little tossed in the waves, with only a little control over my own actions and hardly any over their outcomes. I watch time, my most precious currency, pass like a river and wonder what my part in it is.
And for some reason, the soundtrack to that, is this: a compilation of AOR old and new, skewing towards disco / city-pop vibes, some of it a bit cheeky, otherwise played straight. And then my usual ingredients: A smattering of exotic flavors. Songs that don’t fit the bill but I just like right now.
I’ve been playing this thing locally for the past three months. Now, as the year approaches its end, it’s time to bottle it up and cast it into the ocean. I hope that if it finds you, it finds you on solid ground, and not so adrift as I am feeling.