Swept by rain and waves, the skipper was facing the sea. He knew, this was the time to take a decision. Slowly, he set his hands on the railing, gazing out a that mist made of wind, salt and raging water. One by one, the crew caught sight of him, and each and everyone's action became suspended.
The seasoned men reluctantly, followed their leader's gaze, the sea staring at one more men by the minute. A young man, covered in freckles, shifted his gaze from one man to another. He saw for the first time in his life, in turn, resolve, combativeness, hope, defiance, respect and despair. Emotions he read in books, a lifetime ago, ashore. Emotions vividly alive, all mixed in one instant, on his mates' faces.
For a very short and eerie moment, the human-induced noise stopped.
Carefully, the young man turned to the captain, alert.
The skipper was looking directly at him. His gaze illegible. The message to come would be for him.
Abandon ship, he said calmly. He yelled the same message, so that the crew could hear him. Already his brown eyes were back to the sea, humans dismissed. Disappeared to the steering post.
On the deck, the first mate came swiftly, and tied a rope around the young man, threw him on top of it, and more or less got them overboard. Everything turned black.
The raging sounds dies.
Stunned by the regular sound of the waves.
There is light here.
And the ground is firm underneath my cheek.
No rocking from the sea.
Thinks the freckled man.
Washed ashore on a sandy beach. The crate isn't far. His hand stings as seawater cleans the open wound that the rope had cut. Taking his time, unsure that his body works, he heaves himself from the ground and separates from the crate. Ties it to a tree and vanish into the forest.
From time to time, he walks about. Bring bits of woods to dry on the beach. The rocks on the side are lava flows. Chunks of obsidian for blades. Every evening, he stares at the sea. Slowly the men and the fate vanish. And the storm recedes in his mind.
Sometimes he talks to the sea.
Sometimes he does not utter a word for days.
Sometimes, he opens a bottle of rum from the crate.
It's becoming like a need to sit down at the end of the day, and watch the sea, empty of any thoughts.
One day, the sun directly in his eye, the sea in front of him, something's up the surfacing reef. He notice a head. Black long hair around her face.
Every time he approaches, the head draws back. And here the next day.
Little by little, he gets closer. He can't go in the water, because then, the head vanishes completely and doesn't return before days. One evening, after talking to the sea for awhile, he get some rum and sits on a rock, continuing his conversation. He has drunk quite a bit, and does not realise how close the head is. He's in deep conversation with the sea. He is debating whether he is hallucinating, and whether mermaids exist. An sunken treasure. And more rum, possibly. Somewhere on the island.
In the water, the head comes closer. The eyes are black, thoughtful.
She disappears for a while.
Freckles, on the rock, listen to the sea. And sometimes answers.
Head, breaks the water surface. Freckles smiles. Head smiles hesitantly, as if she'd forgotten how to do it. Head creates some arms attached to her and hands him, a bottle of rum.
Elated, Freckles sings something, something about a shining diamond. Head takes a swig. Freckles talks without making any sense most of the night. Watchful, Head listens and leans on a submerged rock. He talks about that terrible night. He talk of his wife and children. He talks about the desire to sail the sea. He talks something about the telephone company, and something about government and free will.
Later, very much later, as the days broke, Freckles is convinced that he is seeing a mermaid. She has fallen asleep on the rock, her newly discovered or created arms around the rock as if holding to it. Freckles, looks at her for the first time in detail. For she is beautiful. Not in a picturesque way. She has a face that just matches her own self. Clear, simple and wild. Rightfully marked by time.
Isn't it said that mermaid are balefully beautiful? Should you not kiss her Freckles? As a respect to folk tales, as much as by desire? Careful not to touch the water, for fear she'll dissolve, Freckles tastes the salt on her.
The next day, she is not there.
Freckles considers the sea, his head heavy as hell. Wonders whether he imagined the whole thing. Decides that, somehow, fictive or not, it would be beautiful to tame a mermaid, even to no avail.
Later on she comes again, and sometimes they drink together and he sings. She brings him bits of seashell and treasures from the sea. Even a fine blade one time.
Another day, he starts working on the dry wood, carving here and there. Daring the sea as he works the wood. Someday, he notices that Head is back, faraway from the shore. He moves the wood closer to the sea so she could watch. She comes closer.
As suns rise and falls, she learns about knots and wood, blades and sails. He gets used to be not quite alone. Talking mostly. And singing.
She never says a word. Every time he calls her "Mermaid", she frown and looks at some fixed location in the distance.
One day, his raft is ready. He has been loading the raft with various object. Staff, blades, water and fruits. He waves that her to come closer. She shakes her head. Something in her gaze is dead serious. Freckles hesitates just a fraction, then he waves at her to go away, for fear she'd cry. She doesn't. Frowns deeper and stays on her ground. He takes his shirt off, which by now is a sign that he wants to swim and she normally disappears. But not today. He frowns. Breathe deeply and pushes the raft to the water. Her gaze coating his every move. Running seawater on his face, he rows towards open waters.
She stays here watching until he is part of the horizon. The sun is still high when she touches the rock where the rum was drunk. Head pulls herself out of the water. She does not wear any clothes, nor fish tails. She walks to the shirt, left on the sand. She waits until the wind and the sun dries her body and covers her bareness. Onshore with her, lies the open crate. The one that contained the rum. She looks at the sea. The way he looked at the sea for so long. Hours. Comes hail or rain. Eyes locked to the horizon. She looks at the sea the way he does. She runs a hand on the crate, and the tale of the raging storm comes to her. The faces of the men lost at sea. The gentleness with which, she was respected. She climbs in the crate and pulls the cover, knees up to her chin, not to see the world.
Long hours the cover stayed closed. But day streamed in the next morning. A fire was prepared and fish was roasting. She got out of the crate. He looks at her slowly, until she draws her feet out of the crate. Then slowly, he grins. Her face isn't quite the same, for the sun shines once more.
Pink Floyd - Shine on you crazy diamond
