A Sea of Light
written by: H.E. Ross
The ice cream dripped slowly down the side of the cone in only one long drool. The sky was deep blue, cloudless, hot and humid. No palms moved a hair from a tip. No mosquitoes had the energy in this heat to think about buzzing. He sat still on the park bench. A woman walked by dressed in a petticoated long tan skirt with a white blouse loose on a shoulder, carrying a shawl that belonged up on those smooth shoulders, but it was too hot to even criticise her, let alone admire her, whoever she was.
He lifted the ice cream to his mouth and buried his lips in the vanilla flavour and smell with a soft soothing that lasted a full fifteen seconds before it felt like moist paper. The ice cream became warm cream without the energy of that past memory of vanilla.
He opened his eyes to the darkness and the tossing of Gull. Spray hit his face softly but sent a chill into his tiredness. Time was running out. How long was this going to go on? He knew he needed to sleep. He knew the boat could either take care of itself in this or not. The little oil bucket kept the seas down off the stern a little to starboard but unseen in the darkness. Phosphorescence drowned in curls of what he knew to be invisible liquid. He could just take a little nap, lie down on the cockpit sole and close his eyes. He could set the timer on his watch for twenty minutes and take a nap.
Had he already taken a nap? He wondered, looking up at the black sky for an answer. He looked at his watch, and it showed around four-twenty. There were only a couple of more hours before sunrise, and a vision of what situation he was in. Maybe it was only an hour and a half, he questioned his time on the planet. What difference does it make? To see a badass storm might scare me. Maybe this is better. But, not knowing when the big one will hit the boat and turn her… what is the name we call it, he asked the cabin hatch. He couldn’t see if it was wet or not, but he knew it was; it had to be. He could feel that everything was wet, so the hatch boards had to be wet, too. He moved forward, releasing his hand hold on tiller and jib winch to look closer. The hatch boards were wet; he could see that they were even in this darkness.
He settled back with hand on tiller and the other hand with fingers around the winch. The winch isn’t cold, he thought out loud.
Again, he heard the wind. Funny, he thought, when you don’t think about it, the wind isn’t there. This continuous blast of wet air pushing me to lee; pushing Gull on her side. Turn Turtle, that was what we call it. I don’t want to call it at all, or think about it. Why am I thinking about it, he said to the winch, then looked at the tiller to include it in the conversation. The wind. His breathing. Slow breathing, fast wind. He started laughing, then looked at the winch he felt he was neglecting to share the humour of it. He forgot what was funny.
He stropped the tiller with the surgical elastic a little to windward and moved the hatch forward. It took a lot of energy to make the move, so he turned around, resting against the hatch boards with his back. He looked at the tiller moving in tiny jerks but maintaining course. He wasn’t really sure if it was maintaining course, but it was better to think it was. Pressing his lips together, he turned and pushed the hatch cover forward, rose to quickly put his legs over and, feeling the ladder, climbed down, pushing the cover closed.
It was quiet below deck. It wasn’t really, but it was compared to the wind that he had been ignoring. Gull was being jerked, and that he could feel down here more than up there. He had to hold onto anything solid: the engine box, the handrail at the bulkhead, the table, the stove. He looked down at the three burners. It was lighter down in the cabin than up above. He looked at the three burners, then over at the stainless steel double sink. He liked that sink. That sink had his coffee pot in it. That was why he came down, he remembered proudly, making him smile that he had remembered that he came down to make a thermos of coffee. He searched the shadows of the cabinet that held the thermos, but remembered the thermos was in the cockpit empty.
He was tired. He got the lighter from the utensil drawer. They were all neatly arranged. He thought to them, You think if you are neat, everything will be all right, don’t you? He turned the gas on, lit the front burner and looked down at the cheeriness of the circular flame of oranges, yellows, blues. He wanted to lie in the flame. If it were man-sized, he would just lie in it and get warm and dry. Shaking his head and thoughts side to side, he put the lighter back in the utensil drawer, sneering at the utensils so snug in their little beds. He turned on the water and put the coffee pot under the faucet, and half-filled the pot. He looked around for the top but gave up in the shadows that were everywhere. He put the pot on the burner and waited. His neck ached. Coffee, the remembered and felt in the cabinet that had the dry stuff and felt the soft pouch of the coffee bag. He pulled it out and opened the corner, and poured coffee into the pot. Maybe he put too much in? He questioned. It doesn’t matter, I will probably be dead in an hour.
Why did I say that to myself? It was what he said to the porthole that jerked back and forth, but he looked startled at the fact that it was he who was jerking back and forth, and the porthole was innocent. He steadied himself, leaning onto the edge of the stainless steel sink. Not sure what to do, he searched for the coffee pot top and found it. He just put it on the coffee pot and placed the coffee pot on the front burner flame. Some yellows flared up on the sides of the pot, letting him see the blue with a little white dot design. He would need a cup and the coffee strainer. Both were in the sink, his memory told him.
He was tired. Was he awake? Yes, of course, he was awake, or he wouldn’t be answering his question, or was he really answering his question? He wondered if he were dead, would he be able to answer his question about being asleep? He said out loud, Come on, you’re better than this. He looked around the cabin and switched on the light above the cooker. The cabin was bright with that little bit of light, thanks to the cream paint he smartly covered all the wood with. He raised his fingers to his cheeks and found that he was smiling. He turned and smiled at the porthole. The coffee wasn’t boiling yet. He looked at his watch. It showed around five o’clock. He looked back up at the porthole, but no lightening sky outside, just bumping against the sink below. The coffee hadn’t boiled yet.
Wasn’t it four-twenty just a minute ago? he wondered. His head shook, confirming his suspicion that it wasn’t four-twenty just a minute ago because he had come below and did something down here; made coffee down here, but it isn’t boiling yet. It takes time, he said to the porthole. His mouth was dry. His index finger throbbed. He looked at it and saw a lot of blood covering it and the other fingers, but not his thumb. He looked down in the sink, and on the left one there was that knife. That knife had already cut him twice today, or yesterday, actually. There was a lot of blood in the sink. Steam started to come out of the pot, and the smell of brewing coffee made him inhale deeply. A feeling of a hot day sitting on a bench. A woman passing. A bird, no two or three birds singing nearby.
I love Mexico, he said to the porthole.
- A Sea of Light - November 24, 2025
- Spotlight On Writers – H.E. Ross - July 5, 2025
- The Meditation in a Sailing Lesson - June 16, 2025
