by Lee Wyndham

Created on: October 20, 2008

The seas crash against her full breasts, her sculpted gilt ringlets, and her painted Mona Lisa smile. Her shoulders thrust seamlessly out from the pointed prow a proud, living figurehead.

A hundred feet away, I can feel the spray she flings at me, laughingly. My hands are on the smooth wood of the helm; I guide her into the troughs, rocking her gently. The ship's sails luff quick puffs of breath. I match the rhythm of my breathing to them. My lungs fill as the ship's sails grow taught in the quickening breeze.

* * *

Her breath beaded delicately on the plastic oxygen mask. I could barely see her chest rise and fall. I matched the rhythm of my breathing to the soft sound of air swishing through tubes. My breath felt shallow to me; suffocating in its slowness.

Her skin had that greyness to it but her eyes were a sharp blue when she caught my eye. She struggled with the mask; I came closer and eased the elastic off her goose-bumped scalp.

"I've decided what to write for my next novel. It's about an ancient pirate ship in the Caribbean Sea. Come, my girl, take some notes for me." She tried to school her wavering voice and pulled a wry smile.

"We need some adventure in this room," she declared, looking around at the seafoam walls and clinical tile floors.

I shrugged and pulled out a pen.

* * *

The pencil scrapes across the chart as the ship lurches suddenly.

"Damn." I search for an eraser. The ship takes on a wider roll and I jump the two steps up on deck. In a second I take in the rapidly darkening skies, the whitecaps dancing on the waves, the singing of tight rigging.

"All hands on deck. All hands on deck! Hands forward to douse the t'gallant!" I cry out, reaching for my climbing harness.

The Captain stumbles on deck, his face puffy with sleep, his eyes sharp and dark.

"Get aloft to furl," he growls at me unaware that I'm already halfway there.

As the young trainees are hustled along in confusion by the crew, directed from station to station to rapidly reduce sail, I grasp a hold of the shrouds and haul myself up. I time my movements with the hard rocking of the ship; holding tight as I swing out over the water, and climbing quickly as I'm pressed against the shrouds.

My heart is beating rapidly in its cage; I swallow my stomach as my jaw tenses with nausea. No time to stop and think a blessing. I'm at the highest point of the foremast, stepping out on ratlines that I had hurriedly tied months ago and still have not had time to fix. As I step on one it slips a little, then catches

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