Captain England (Post 2)

I’m not sure how long it took for us to get to Nassau. It may have just been an hour, but considering how I felt, it may as well have been a week. It simply couldn’t end quickly enough. I dwelled in the darkest pits of hell, trying my damnedest to breathe through my mouth so as not to smell the feculence around me. I didn’t – couldn’t – think about where I was and why I was there. The only thought that floated through my mind as I moaned, curled up in the captain’s bunk, listening to the creaking of the brigantine as it rocked from side to side, was that I undeniably, unequivocally, wanted to die.

At some point, I became aware that we’d dropped anchor. It was a fact that was hard to miss – I heard the eager cries of the men, the stomping of running feet up above me, and a great rumbling that made the whole ship tremble. I wanted to be excited, to jump up and run up the ladder into the sunlight, but I was crippled in my misery. Get off the ship, I told myself. The sooner you get your ass up, the sooner you’ll feel better.

Before I was able to work up the will to stand up, the Irishman had glided back down the hatch into the cabin, looking at me anxiously. “We’re at Nassau,” he said, setting his hands on his hips as I rolled over and pushed myself up with my hands. I groaned at the effort, and the nausea that welled up as I moved. I met his gaze as he said, “So you’ll have friends here, will ye?” I nodded and he rubbed his chin. He couldn’t hide the curiosity from his face as he asked in a soft, bewildered voice, “What are ye about, lass? Yer hands are soft like those of a lady, but ye wear the strangest garments  my eyes have ever seen.” He glanced at the life jacket, so bright and orange and foreign in the surroundings of his cabin, and the pile of wet clothes on the floor. “Ye speak like yer from the Colonies, but much of what ye say is foreign.”

I looked at him, unable to hide the annoyance in my voice. “I’m an American who was on vacation in the Bahamas. I went on a booze cruise that got caught in a storm. I got knocked off the boat. What’s so hard to get?”

The captain looked like he didn’t know where to begin. He stammered a bit before asking, “What the devil is a ‘booze cruise’? I never heard ‘o such a thing.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat was completely dry. “Can I get off the boat? Then I’ll let the police explain everything to you.”

“How now?”

“What?”

Realizing this conversation was going nowhere, the Irishman rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s be off, then. I’ll help you ashore. Will ye want…?” He indicated the life jacket.

I shook my head. “No, keep it. You guys could use it.” I wanted to add, “You guys could also use a good shrink and a padded cell,” but I chose not to speak the words aloud, since he was the one with the weapons. I picked up my clothes, still damp, from the floor and gripped them tightly in my hand as I stood. I was sure not to forget my underwear – God knows what these sickos would do with them if I accidentally left them.

I wanted to turn his offer of help down, but the truth was, I didn’t think I could make it up the ladder and off the boat by myself. I grudgingly let him hold my arm as I stumbled up the ladder, clutching my gut and willing myself not to collapse into a retching heap. I found myself leaning heavily  on the captain as we shuffled along the deck. As we reached the railing, I finally looked up, my eyes seeking the bright pink of the resorts, the white cruise ships lined in row, Parliament Square littered with colorfully-dressed tourists.

Instead, I saw dozens of wooden sloops and longboats, including an enormous three-masted ship, darkly painted and bobbing peacefully in the vast, sparkling harbor. Several dugout canoes sat on the shore, and a couple beached sloops rotted nearby, their looted skeletons abandoned in the sun. A town of shanty taverns and huts was nestled amidst the palms and tropical foliage on the edge of the strand, along with tents made of torn sails and palm fronds. Cooking fires lit the ramshackle settlement with a glowing orange, their smoke curling slowly up into the sky.

I felt my heart thump erratically in my chest. Was there a Disney Pirates of the Caribbean part of the harbor I didn’t know about? Were we on the right island? I looked at the shape of the spacious harbor, with Potters Cay nestled between New Providence and Paradise Island. I stumbled forward, gripping the railing tightly between my hands, feeling the wood splinter into my skin. I stared as the ship’s crew clambered down into gigs. They were clearly thrilled to be here, their rough, hardened faces beaming, barely aware of my presence. I listened as they shouted to each other in a language that hardly sounded like English, some singing along to the distant playing of a violin.

I turned to the Irish captain, my eyes seeking an explanation, and saw that he watched me carefully, a peculiar expression on his face. I opened my mouth to say something, to curse, or beg, or scream, but all that came out was a weak, “What the hell…”

And then I fainted.