Sea Symphony
Rowan Smith, Year 12
As I continue to heave my guts over the side of the railing, I take a moment to look up, watching the peaks of mountains appear over the horizon line. I feel glimmer of hope shoot up inside of me: finally, this accursed journey is at its end. Four long weeks at sea, my only company the gruff, unruly sailors and the stretch of bannister at the bow of the ship. I’ve lost count of the number of times the meal has been thrown up in the sea, like a spurned lover. It was the second week before a member of the crew informed me that I might feel better watching the horizonline, and despite my outrage at the time, I am eternally grateful to him. Not only did I feel a little better over the course of the journey, but now I can watch my reprieve, my deliverance from this great suffering come towards me, rising from the earth millimetre by millimetre. Surely, of all the wonders of the world, the horizon is the greatest.
The sweet sound of waves crashing against the rocky barrier, the creaking of masts, rigging, and hulls as they shuffled against each other like apples in a canvas sack, the calling of the fishwives selling their husband’s catches, the first mate’s preparing their ship for swift departure, the crew hands laughing, grunting and swearing as they unload and offload their wares created a symphony which seemed unlike any that I had heard before, rising to a crescendo as we docked in front of the tariffmaster’s office. I almost ran to the rope ladder, on the port-side of the ship, until I was suddenly stopped by the first mate, who went by name of Davey.
“Sorry lad,” he says, putting his large, toned arm in my path, “Can’t let ya off just yet. Need to pay for docking rights, and the old goat on shore needs to dock us of our goods.”
I sigh and put my hands up in defeat. I knew it would never be that easy.
“Alright,” I reply, “How long will that take?”
“No idea,” Davey grinned, before turning around to address his crew.
I was not a part of this speech, it seems, so I went back to my customary place, this time watching the fevered scurrying of the seaside crowd, the symphony growing and changing as time passed on. No longer did the fishwives and crew harmonise, the discordant notes ringing through my ears, leaving a terrible taste on my tongue. The creaking and shuffling began to crash down on me like tidal waves, filling me with a primordial fear. After spending weeks on end with the calm, pulsing, endless break of waves along the bow, the quiet, jovial comradery of the crew, and the constant picturesque grandness of the horizon, populated by clouds, sun, and stars, I had grown accustomed to the adventurous monotony of it all.
A heavy weight on my shoulder interrupted my thoughts. I turn my head, meeting the bright blue eyes of the captain of this voyage, Jack Merler. A wide smile sat behind his scruffy beard, his soft cap no longer adorning his balding head. “Well then, Aeryn,” he began, removing his hand from my shoulder, “This is it, lad. Congratulations on survivin’ ya first voyage at sea.”
“Thank you, Merler. I really appreciate you doing this for the Guild.”
“Nonsense, me boy. You and your people ‘ave done me enough favours in the past. It be high time I repay that debt.”
I smile and nod at him, and he turns, gesturing to the rope ladder. “Whenever you’re ready, lad.”
As I move to go, a sudden thought strikes me. “Merler, how long do you plan to be in port?”
“Awh, not long. We’ll be heading off first thing t’morrow. Why, life at sea sunk its hooks in ya?” He chuckles, obviously finding the thought of my poor self as a sailor hilarious.
I laugh in return, but his words strike me deeply. Have I grown accustomed to life at sea? I’m well aware that my role on this voyage was one of passenger, and as such I did little to help about the ship, but Merler and his crew inspired something in me. The dusty, disused libraries full of sailor stories, the grand adventures and perilous journeys, could not stack themselves against what little I’d experienced over these last four weeks. The small fires on sandpits lighting up the crew’s faces as they eat their evening meal, bantering, playing cards and knucklebone. The fresh spray of salt water as the ship cut through waves like a knife through butter. The billowing wind furthering our journey, the grand vistas artists made in their paintings did not compare to the wonder that is the horizon, a constantly shifting canvas that fills the sky.
“Actually, Merler, I think it has,” I said, not realising my words until they had left my mouth. He turned to me, surprised, his grin widening as he does so.
“Well then, lad, I s’ppose ya better finish off your business here and get back before sunrise, ey?”
“I shall, then.”