Stanly and the Boat

This is a rough draft of something that I wrote for a class. I will likely be trying to improve it later, and I think that it would be interesting to show what happens after editing.

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Stanly and the Boat

Stanly Pentington sat in the tingling morning sun with one hand trailing listlessly in the water and the other flopped across his stomach. His body ached, he was hungry, his two boat mates gave him endless shivers while the waves gave him no measure of rest, he hadn't stood on anything more solid than his raft for weeks, land was beyond sight, and something, something he couldn't understand, might be slithering out there in the dark sea. He glanced over the soft swells and valleys of blue water before him, catching a hint of brine and seaweed on the breeze pushing his unshaven hair before his eyes, and began to chuckle. There really was nothing particularly humorous about the situation save its complete lunacy. A year ago he was on solid land, ate solid meals, and slept in an oh so firmly planted bed, and now, now he was alive at least.

As his stomach growled Stanly considered his current predicament. The whole rotten mess had really begun when he stepped onto that damned ship in the first place. No. No that wasn't quite right, this was his own fault. He knew that ships didn't tend to snare men like spiders, and that it is men who pick their own watery webs in which to be stuck. Stanly had chosen his particular snare months before. He had been sitting on a comfortable white chair on a mild summer day. The wind-born scent of grass hailed his nose as he took occasional sips from a deep glass of tea he had had a servant bring him. Inches from his right hand lay a magazine, pregnant with unread ideas, but at that moment Stanly had found it preferable to lie still save for intermittent grasps at his drink. Lying as such, the sun tickled his skin with its warmth. Away in the kitchen of his tasteful country home, Stanly's wife directed yet more servants as they busied themselves making an afternoon lunch. Soon she, Stanly, and their three children, two of which were scampering about the woods playing at rogues and rebels, the other choosing to nap, would happily eat that lunch. Later the children would be sent to bed with a story, and Stanly would have his time alone with Mrs. Pentington. This dance would repeat for the rest of the weekend, until Monday morning shone and Stanly would go back to work in the city. There Stanly labored managing the tidy fortunes of other men, and no one could say that he did that any way less than excellently. Through work he had ensured over the years that he had those things he desired.

As Stanly basked in his chair that afternoon, the devilish thought that his now boat ridden self knew to be doom entered his mind. His life was nearly perfect. He had money, and from money shelter and servants to see to his needs. He had charm and personality, and from these a lovely wife, and from her beautiful children. The steadiness of his career matched the reliability of his home-life, and both were only rivaled in certainty by the two facts that his existence had become boring and that one day he would die.

Stanly became afraid. He considered that on his death bed he would look back and have only those memories of a life lost. He realized that even then, there on his manicured lawn, what he truly possessed was the past, for the future was uncertain. His past, if arranged as a series of tidy paintings, would have been quite a boring art show to attend. Connoisseurs glancing through that gallery would see two sets of paintings reiterated endlessly; privilege and pretty lawns. As a child Stanly's parents were well off, and watched over him carefully as he played in their country abode, as a young man Stanly studied the arts of managing moneys, and in his current state, he enjoyed some mix of the two former scenes. This was not enough.

Stanly wanted to see what lay beyond his narrow upbringing. He wanted to see the giraffes he had read about as a child, the pyramids and ruins he knew sprawled in deserts and jungles about the world. Stanly wanted to hear foreign tongues surround him, to be a stranger and visitor in someone else's tidy world. The thrill of knavery and the ecstasy of facing probable defeat and prevailing were two vivid wines from which Stanly had not so much as sipped, and of sailing, drinking, riding, painting, poetry and more he knew less. What good was his dull warm box he had preserved from the world for some forty and more years without any knowledge of what sat outside of it? Stanly resolved to see things, to leave behind his wife, children and cozy home, if only for a few weeks each year, and to look, really look, for more specimens to augment his little box-display of a life. Preferably by boat.

Stanly was slapped from his reverie by his boat mate Renwick's mutterings. That whole exploring the world thought, especially the last bit about boats, struck Stanly as poor now that he had tried it and it had gone disastrously wrong. Noticing that Stanly had come to, Renwick looked back at him in his odd sideways sort of way. An abnormally skinny white male of about thirty five years, Renwick possessed thick, bushy eyebrows and lanky, spidery legs. He was prone to many tics, an occasional repeated squinting of his eyes and quick, compulsive jerks of his right fist being among them. His hair was thick and black, and even before their boat had sunk and they had been forced into the life rafts, he had grown a greasy unkempt beard and seldom washed or combed his hair. What was worse, there wasn't enough food for the both of them, which left a grisly issue to be sorted out.

Often when he looked at Renwick, Stanly recalled a chilling conversation he had overheard on the vessel. The ship's attending physician and its captain had been speaking in hushed tones as they walked about the upper deck. Naturally curious, Stanly had pretended to continue reading one of his magazines while intently listening. “What in God's name are we going to do about him?” the captain had demanded. Lowering his voice still further, the physician responded “Heavens Charles, I have no idea. His symptoms continue to worsen, he appears now to be slipping further and further from healthy reality. His words are becoming increasingly violent and just as of yesterday the man started rattling off about how he has some divine lended purpose. None of my medicines have done the least for his symptoms, and I haven't the slightest as to what manner of fit he suffers from. We can't exactly continue to let him roam about the ship as he is, but what are we to say if we lock the fellow up?”. “We'll have to think of something if he gets any worse. For now, just keep close watch over him and late me and the first mate know if the situation...” muttering this the captain stopped and looked quickly up at Stanly whose seat was now quite close to the talking pair. “Good afternoon Mr. Pentington. I trust you are enjoying the morning air on our deck?” Although it was quite clear that both parties where aware of the eavesdropping that had been going on, Stanly managed to muster a sheepish response of “Quite Charles.” With that, the physician and captain strode off with a purpose for the lower decks and presumably the privacy of one of their quarters.

By now Stanly was quite sure that they had been discussing Renwick, but was still as uncertain as they had been over what to do about the man. At night, while the ocean's slow rocking lulled Stanly to sleep, Renwick would remain wide-awake watching him. The last thing that Stanly glimpsed would be those two reddened eyes. In the setting sun they seemed to gleam with unnatural hunger, and when he wasn't twitching, Renwick blinked far less than would have been comforting. Stanly's dreams were filled with predatory eyes, and he often wondered how much his companion actually slept at night.

Stanly had never known a combination of terror and excitement like that of the day their ship sunk. One moment he had been restfully asleep, and the next he had awoken with his oddly door open, probably by the ships tremendous list, and people screaming frantically everywhere. A shallow film of water sloshed to and fro across the floor of his cabin, and when his groggy brain realized what was going on, he sat up electrified and fumbled to dress. He observed the water growing deeper, and now wading, made all haste to the stairs along with everyone else from his passenger deck. An immense throng of bodies shoved, tripped and slid up the three flights between him and the top deck. One unfortunate woman fell in her hurry, and Stanly watched her dissapear with a cry beneath cruel rushing feet. No one seemed to even notice, and while Stanly fought briefly to get to her, the pressing throng forced him away and he thought better of it. When he finally surfaced free from the myriad limbs and bodies of the stairwell, he saw the entire deck nearly filled with milling occupants. The sound of hundreds of worried voices asking questions, crying, and shouting reverberated up and down the length of the ship. He saw the captain standing aloft in his elevated bridge, gesturing orders to the crew who were now guiding the women and children on the vessel into life rafts. Wild faced passengers to whom Charles remained imperious clawed at the windows of his bridge while yelling things Stanly could not make out.

Stanly stopped another passenger by grabbing and swinging around his leather sleeve. The man was just as scared as he, and when asked what in the holy fuck was going on, responded “Captain says someone blew a piece of the hull somehow. Wouldn't say no more.” Hearing this Stanly felt his stomach turn over a few times before regaining composure. The ship had now began to list further sideways, and it became necessary for Stanly to lightly brace his feet as the deck took an incline. The self inflating escape boats the crew were rapidly unloading from their storage compartments were first filled with a small complement of people and then lowered by great white painted cranes along the deck and into the water. Each boat was assigned several crew mates who pushed it off before it was replaced.

Despite there being enough boats for the entire complement of passengers, people again began to push, shove and shout. When it came to be Stanly's turn, and he loaded in and pushed off with some fifteen others packed tightly into his craft. He was one of the last groups loaded, and by that time had needed to grip a nearby railing to brace himself from the horribly skewed ship and gravity working together against him.

For hours, he and the flotilla of assembled rescue craft listened to wails of children and moans of adults as the boat bit by bit submerged. Its crew members scattered amongst the life rafts talked through radios and shouting to one another, and it became apparent to anyone who would listen, which was everyone, that before blowing the hull, whoever or whatever responsible had also destroyed the emergency long distance transmission system, and that no help had been called. This news was unwise information for the crew to share, for the occupants of the assorted rafts were reaching a breaking point of panicked fever in Stanly's opinion.

It was then that a certain greasy bearded co-occupant of Stanly's raft, who he would soon come to know as Renwick, first spoke to Stanly. “So friend, what do you suppose our odds are here then?” he inquired with an off-putting grin. He spoke close to Stanly's face, and his breath stunk of gin. “Well... we are in a shipping lane. I'm sure you have ears just as good as mine and can tell that rescue isn't coming for us, but certainly someone will happen by if we just stay put” Stanly reasoned, as much to comfort himself as to make conversation. The greasy-bearded man nodded and smiled showing straight white teeth, “Aye, true enough. Name's Renwick friend.” Stanly replied “Stanly Pentington. It's good to be of acquaintance. I don't suppose you have a last name Renwick?” “They just call me Renwick friend.” the man replied. Stanly was quite sure he didn't like being called friend by this stranger.

Rescue ships didn't come that evening. Neither did other vessels, and while most of the ragtag flotilla tried to rest, the continued wailing of humanity made that impossible for the lighter sleeping souls, Stanly and Renwick both evidently counting amongst that group.

Deep into the night, with only the moon illuminating the water, Stanly sat awake gazing off deep into the water. The others who remained aware were all lying cramped with the sleepers, sprawled in awkward positions over one another and flailing consciously or otherwise on regular intervals. They reminded Stanly of the fat seals he had once seen in picture books, who sat lazily in colonies stretching for miles along the beach. He had given up on rest and was content to watch water lap again and again against the side of his boat. The water itself was deep beyond sight. It made Stanly feel small. Here he was with several hundred others, the entire lot of them possessing only enough power to crawl across the face of the water at a pace even the tiniest fish below them could match and put to shame. They could see nothing but a horizon and the sky, while from below they must have been vivid specks, visible for miles to the denizens of the deep. They could not see, they could not run, they could not hide. They were as a worm washed up before crows after a sidewalk rainstorm. But were there crows? That thought made Stanly shudder, and as he considered this possibility some corner of his mind fancied that he saw something in the depth over the edge of his boat.

The lines of a vast shadow pranced deep below him. At one moment the darkness appeared formless, and at the next it was as if a great circle of black was slowly ascending from below. He rubbed his weary eyes and smiled to himself at his foolish ideas, but when he looked again the shadow remained. He strained to understand whatever it was, running over possibilities in his mind. A shoal of fish, a drift of plants, the boats themselves casting an image, or just the reflection of light acting strangely with the sea water, it must have been one of those things he told himself. And then he saw its mouth. A great black line stretching from one side to the other, inching closer to the boats, grand enough to swallow the lot of them whole. With a panicked yelp he jumped backwards and sat down. He inched to the edge again and looked, but the shadow had receded. In his ear he heard the words “Sleep friend, sleep” and this time was not quite so unhappy to be called so.

The next day came and went amidst fewer moans and far more mumblings and grumblings. The assembled former passengers and crew mates had resigned themselves to waiting for pickup, and it was during this day that the crew rafted up all of the small lifeboats and divided out the bulky emergency food and supply containers stored on the rafts. They were thickly fortified boxes, each weighing close to 100 pounds between their casing and the food, medicine, and equipment inside. Some conflicts arose, but for the most part people were either too optimistic, too weary, or too stupid to raise a fuss. It was a very hot day, and Stanly found himself sweating often. He wondered what they would do for water were no help to come soon, couldn't provide an answer, and so tried to put the issue out of mind.

Evening fell with the swells beginning to rise higher and with thick dark clouds coalescing on the edges of the Western horizon. The air tensed and from the general hubbub Stanly could tell that people were scared. He certainly was. As the night grew thicker and the light thin, waves began to crash over boats on occasion, and the entire fleet rose and fell on the larger hills of water that would come rushing by. Soon the winds had raged to terrifying speed, churning the water with them, and huge fists of salt and sea pounded the boats. The huddled people in them were plucked by pairs and flung like petals from a flower in a child's hands. As the storm worsened, entire sections of boats were carried off, and Stanly gripped a rope running around the gunnel of his rubber raft as the thing that it was – his life. Each successive wave would make his already numb and barely gripping hands colder, force him to splutter for air, and stick his eyes. Others beside him were not so fortunate, and he watched them be dragged screaming into the depths and out of site. At first he tried to reach out and save those lost to the craft, but quickly his strength was only sufficient to stay aboard. After one brutish wave divested him of three more companions, he looked up to see yet another massive sledge of water crashing towards him. As it struck, the world turned to water, the raft rising in its titanic column. Stanly would have screamed were he able, but instead he only gripped to the guide rope as if his hands were locked in the vice of death. As the boat was flung back downwards, his head struck something hard, and with a flashing of pain Stanly remembered no more.
He awoke to a spinning clear sky. Sitting up dazedly he looked around, and was disturbed to see that all save one of his original companions had vanished. Renwick alone remained, was awake, and was watching him. Stanly looked around the surrounding ocean and it occurred to him that a small raft was really much like a jail cell. By his right ankle lay one of the emergency steel boxes. He glanced around searching for the other three boxes which should have been situated at the bow and mid port and starboard sides of their raft, but the storm had evidently washed them away with the other passengers. Thinking of how many days one fourth of a food supply intended to feed fifteen people for a few days would last himself and Renwick, he began to grow nervous.

It was then that Stanly heard Renwick chuckling. The man's laugh slithered out over his unkempt beard like a gurgle of air escaping a slit throat. It was deep, and made Stanly involuntarily shudder. “Drowned, drowned, the fools I drowned, to win my spot, in clouds soft wound.” rasped Renwick as he rocked back and forth on his haunches, never taking his gaze from Stanly. At this, Stanly's mind began to race. He recalled again the conversation of a crazed man he had overheard between the captain and his doctor, and the account of the ship's radio lines being cut after it mysteriously sprung a great leak. He backed away slowly towards the opposite end of the raft. “A friend he fears, from us he rears, why friend run, our job is done” spat Renwick. This was not the voice Stanly remembered from their first meeting, but rather more frantic and drawn. Seeming to sense Stanly's thoughts, Renwick smiled and winked at him, then lay back on the opposite end of the boat, closing his eyes, and moving towards sleep.

His heart pounding now, Stanly tried to breathe and take stock of the situation. He floated to who knew where an unknown distance from his original course, he had food at least for a few weeks, no idea how or when rescue might come, and a potentially unstable companion. He was hungry now, and so reached for a first meager meal of dried vegetables, their powdery taste wicking the moisture from his mouth. This reminded him of his need for clean water. Digging quickly through the emergency bin, he sighed in relief as he found iodine tablets and a salt filter at its bottom. There certainly were no cups, but he would make due with the discarded wrappers of the food. It took him some forty minutes while Renwick slept to pump his first drink of clean water since the ships sinking, and the feel of cold refreshment coursing down his throat was sublime. Next Stanly surveyed in greater detail what had been provided by the raft's planners. A manner of further dried vegetables, with complementing fruit lay before him, and besides those what appeared to be some form of gravy mix and deyhydrated potatoes. It was nothing special, but would have to do for now. Surveying the limited supplies, a certain partial solution to his problems insinuated itself into his mind; one man would have more food. Shocked at his own baseness, Stanly shoved the idea aside as best he could; he was a civilized man and would take part in no such evils.

The rest of the day passed to the smooth rhythm of waves rocking the boat as ceaseless rays of light bounced off the surrounding water and the two men. Renwick would roll over periodically, and sometimes awoke and quietly watched Stanly, but the man spoke no more. Night set, and now Renwick was more alert. Stanly tried to make himself comfortable and to sleep, but again found it difficult, especially now with Renwick up to god knew what. Finally he slipped away into repose, and that night he thought he dreamed of dark creatures slipping through unseen depths.

The next day passed in much the same style. Renwick had begun to continually mutter things to himself just below audible level. Occasionally Stanly picked out references to drowning and death. He tried to engage Renwick in some kind of conversation, trying to get some explanation or even a foothold of truth towards who his companion was, but was continually rebuffed, his questions serving only to intensify the cadence of Renwick's inaudible drone. Three times that day they took turns pumping water, and act that for one reason or another brought comfort to Stanly, and supped in near silence on their fruits and vegetables. By now the sun had well burnt the two mens' skins. There was nothing to be done about it hoping his shirt provided a fine barrier, and so Stanly consigned himself to being cooked like a lobster. He wondered if whatever he had seen in the deep would like that were he to drown out there.

The week passed much in kind, Stanly worrying about the future, Renwick making him uneasy, and both keeping close watch on the other as well as the horizon, hoping to see some ship, some salvation, but never being rewarded for their wait. Stanly had been resting poorly and was growing weary, the energy drained from his body just as much by the inescapable heat as by his restlessness. He couldn't recall when it started, but several days after their wreck, Stanly had begun to notice more of Renwick's small mannerisms. Each time the man took a bite of food, he would smack his lips, and he chewed like an elephant with a mouthful of grass, not bothering to close his mouth. Every bite he took came with another smack, and the popping noise was as unavoidable as the sun to Stanly. It bothered Stanly to no end. Renwick also would not sit still. While he muttered, he would gesticulate constantly, and twitch his head side to side in his way. When Stanly was forced to urinate or relieve his bowels, Renwick would rarely look away.

The time of the wait itself was beginning to get to Stanly as well. Back home, he had always had something to do. At work he moved towards a goal, finding a new project just as an old portfolio or transaction had been dealt with, and at home he busied himself reading and raising children throughout the day. Here, there was little that could be done save gaze at the horizon and fear Renwick. He would try to make an hour pass by counting as many ridges along a wave as possible before it merged with another, imagining scenes of his old life, and memorizing the thin crevasses and details of his raft, but in the end each minute composed an eternity and the only severance to the monotony was Renwick's infuriating habits, which had themselves come to be expected.

Five days more slipped by, and it became evident that the food supply was dwindling. Of the original stash, the two men had worked through well more than half, and it became quite clear to Stanly that they may run out before rescue. He put his hand to his brow in frustration, sliding the other around his now thick stubble and twisting his head. He wanted to scream or hit something, but that would waste energy and only make him hotter in the endless rays.

Another six days passed, and on the seventh, Renwick was past being an antsy creature caged on the water, and was now closer to an active volcano. His charred, red and flaking skin certainly looked the part at least. It was that dusk as the sun and its damned heat began to flee him that he was startled to hear Renwick speak. The man's speech was now more regular than it had been since the first time they met. “Friend, how are you faring” inquired Renwick. “Well you can pretty damn well see can't you now my silent partner.” Stanly was incensed with the other's idiosyncratic behavior. “I would just have you know, I sunk the ship” confided Renwick. The way he said this was just as if he were telling the news, and by now Stanly was too worn to mount any reasonable reply. Instead he sat there with his mouth soundlessly flapping.

The next day Stanly gathered the staunchness to reply. He probed “Is that bit you said, about the ship, really true Renwick?” “Yes” replied the man. “You vile fiend, why in blazing hell would you?” “It needed to be done” Renwick retorted. At this Stanly slumped, he truly was in the presence of a lunatic, and what was worse, he had so little to sever the days that it was preferable to entertain him than to say nothing. “If that's so Renwick, why would such a thing need to be done?” “Friend, this place we live in has too many people. They are fat. They are greedy. They want us livin for their goals, for their end. They want us spendin our only resource, life, to keep their own security. My bones told me there was a storm comin, we needed less of them, I did what I did and God will look kindly on me.” Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the grinding sameness of the water, but Stanly wanted to understand Renwick. He had taken his voyage to escape living a molded life, and certainly others had tried to mold it, but... this was madness. “Friend, there is only so much to go around. We pretend to share. We don't. Some take what they will, and the rest believe in manners and place, and die by billions to win some small house off somewhere. There are too many.” With that Renwick was again silent. Stanly pondered his preposterous words, and as dusk fell it occurred to him that Renwick was right. Renwick was so very right, there was too little for everyone.

That night was calm and quiet on the water. As Renwick partook in his nightly ritual of watching Stanly, Stanly returned the act. Hours later, Renwick began to dose, still muttering in his sleep. Possessed by a singularity of purpose, Stanly emptied the remaining half of the his food supply, claimed a short length of rope and a knife from the steel box, and set to work. He gently untied the box from the straps holding it to his raft, and cut an even shorter length of rope free. The anticipation of what he was about to do made his head pound, and the waves around him fuzzed away. All that remained was food, Renwick, a box, some rope, and himself. He tied one end of the rope around a handle of the metal container, and quietly, carefully, crept towards Renwick. The man rolled fitfully over towards him as Stanly crept closer. Now Stanly could hear the in and out rhythm of his breathing, and made out his soft muttering. The words “Drowned. Drowned. Drowned. I...I... Drowned” crept in endless cycles from Renwick as if to confirm Stanly's intentions. Stanly tied the rope around the other man's leg, going slowly and gently so as not to awake Renwick. When he had finished this, his clammy hands slipped backwards shaking.

He crept back across the raft, tensing his muscles for what was to come. He had never been a physically fit man, but now he felt alive and fierce as a lion. In his teeth he clasped the short knife, and with both hands he picked up the steel box now tied to Renwick's leg. The stars and moon cast a thin shadow from his form across the sloshing water as he carried his heavy load over to the boatside near Renwick. He looked over into the black water, and was unsurprised to see the massive dark form he had been waiting for. It's maw stretched dozens of lengths of his boat, some fifty feet down. The crooked bend of its jaw appeared to Stanly to be a great hungry smile. Moments later, he struck. With all of his force, he hurled the box over the side, and as it tugged on Renwick, he grabbed the knife from his mount and slashed it downwards. He raised it again, the blade now soaked in red fluid, and slung it again into his enemy whose hands were now upwards in a vague gesture of defense. Several more times Stanly struck, and then, as Renwick tried limply to fight against the assailant, Stanly grabbed the man by his shoulders, and shoved him towards the water's edge. Renwick, struggling, screaming in some unintelligible form now, grasped madly to the edge of the boat with boat hands as his legs dangled deep into the water. Stanly gave a kick to Renwicks head, and as Renwick thrashed to stay afloat delivered further blows. Renwick struggled like this for some minutes, but as the the water around him grew darker still with his blood, he eventually succumbed and sank. Stanly thought he saw the creature swallow Renwick whole, and retreat. He sat down in the boat, looked at the food scattered across the raft, and began to sob.

For two more weeks Stanly floated alone. He had only enough provisions to eat several morsels a day, and he grew exhausted and emaciated. At night he thought no more of great creatures, and saw the thing no more, but yet he could not sleep. It was not long before he could barely raise himself to the boats edge, and spent the day in complete exhaustion on the floor of his vessel. Ten days in the food ran out, and he could only sit and wait. For four days he did not eat, seeing terrible things, and coming to grips with his doom. He had been wrong to off Renwick, and couldn't understand what drove him to. The creature beneath the sea was pure hysteria.

Some thirty days after the sinking of the boat, Stanly was unsure of the exact date, a ship appeared on the horizon. Stanly rubbed his eyes at first, then lurched hazily to his feet and waved his arms as best he could. The vessel was a large fisher, and tooted a baritone response several minutes later as it approached him. Stanly vaguely perceived being pulled aboard by worried faces come to meet him in a launch, and brought onto the ship. He was given a soft clean bed, asked his name and business, and when it was found that he had been on the sunken passenger ship from the last month, the crewmen were shocked. Seeing his poor condition and already possessing nearly a full haul, their captain called off the fishing trip and set for shore. A day later the fast engines brought them to Stanly's home port. All Stanly could think of was his family, and demanded to see them immediately, but the men instead took him to the hospital, telling him that he had undergone great stress and that it was a marvel he was alive. There he sat in bed waiting, just as he had at sea. The doctor's took his insurance information from the battered wallet still in his dirty clothes, asking him many strange questions that he only partially understood, and came and went.

Later that very day, a nurse asked him if he would take visitors, to which he shook his head affirmatively as best he could. When his children came running in yelling daddy and hugging him and shining their blessed little smiles, he felt like he was home. Moments later, his beautiful wife entered with a deeply concerned expression on her face. She took his hand, leaned close to smell his hair, and kissed him on the forehead. Exuberant and crying, she whispered, “Renwick darling, I never thought I would see you again”.