The Sea

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
A fishing boat gets lost at sea in the pacific.

Submitted: July 02, 2013

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Submitted: July 02, 2013

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There is an eerie comfort in the sheer vastness of the ocean. In each direction is blue monotony and seldom more than that, save for the soothing face of the moon, wary of our bobbing vessel. Myself and my navagator Phillip had been commercially fishing for mackerel off of the cost of Peru for the better part of a week. Only when we had lost moral and given up had we realised that our coordenants were off. Phillip was by trade an expert navigator,it being in his blood. His father before him had navigated for the Royal Navy in the second great war, and his father in the first before him. He was quite wary of my accusation of our misplacement and in fact had insisted that the instuments had gone faulty. A menial navigator myself, by the light of the moon I could tell by the stars that we were much farther south of the equator that intended. Without mentioning a word of the observation Phillip had brought up the same point, assuming that unprecidendted winds must have picked up while we slept and carried us for miles. Decidedly lost the logical next step would be to conclude as to our exact location.

 

 I had laid a large map of the pacific across a table in the cabin and instructed Phillip to join me. According to our instruments we had drifted roughly into the coordinants of 47°9'S 126°43'W, and according to the map this was a vast expanse of emptiness in the Pacific. It was at this point that my stomach had tightened at the thought of being lost at sea. I had expected that we should not encounter another ship in the vastness for days, and upon checking the radio my fears were immediatley shown to be true. Where normally other fisherman and leisure sailors would be exchanging weather and catch on the radio, our ears met with nothing but static.

 

 Phillip had set the course back to the coast and I had re-thrown the mackeral nets in hopes of making the best of the poor situation. The ship slowly slithered across the still ocean surface. There was only a whisper of wind and, besides the gentle humming of our ships motor, the ocean air was completely silent. The salted air was cool against the skin and the glow of the moon illuminated the deck as sufficiantly as our deck lights. Phillips' eyes were locked forward. His gaze competing with that of the horizon, as if hoping against his own common sense that he would soon see the silhouette of beloved land. I walked to the nets in anticipation of hoisting them and collecting my prize, when suddenly I heard a noise that sounded like a sheet of solid steel being torn in half.

 

 The net had snagged on something quite sturdy and torn itself from the deck of the ship, the sheer pressure of the even severing one of the many steel cabled that lifted the heavy load from the deep. With little time to react I did all I could think to do and covered my head as Phillip had thrown the motor into reverse in an attempt to cease the ships progress. The cabal had whipped away from its trauma point, like the tongue of a snake tasting the air, and lashed across my leg. I collapsed to the floor and howled in agony, head turned so as not to bear witness to my mangled limb. Phillip ran to me and observed the damage, that of which was a deep gash to the bone. A non-life thretening injury but one that would render me useless on the ship none the less. As my pale face looked up at Phillip I could tell by his eyes that he had the same thought as I. What could have torn the net clean off of the deck in the middle of the Pacific? We were still in the deep-sea, it would have been impossible for the net to have caught on rock or coral resting in shallow waters. Phillip dressed my wounds and propped me against the railing and began to reverse the boat, high-powered search lamp pointing downward, carefully and tediously tracing the ripples of the water.  

 

 No sooner than he was aware of what happened had he found the culprit of our near ship wreck. There, no more than ten yards under the crystal blue water, was a polished spire jutting from the deep. To say that this monolith was adorned on the bottom of the ocean would make it a mammoth stone, and more likely it was a smaller peice of an under-sea mountain range that our ship had ventured over. Looking over the deck down at the stone had sticken me with vertigo, the temptation to let strange powers pull me down unto the abyss and devore me in darkness. I had to look away, back at Phillip, who's gaze yet again was locked on the water. We had both been certified in scuba, but with my injury I was in no condition to dive, much less at night, and much less in unfamiliar and seemingly dangerous waters. Phillip however was primed on the idea of diving in to see at least a bit more of this fantastic stone, if only to satisfy his curiosity to know what had devistated our vessel. Against my pleas to stay aboard and not risk diving solo, Phillip had suited up in his diving gear. His dive mask was equipped with a radiothat he and I might still be able to communicate while he was under, which subtly eased me to the idea. He had grabbed a coil of rope and fastened one end to his waist, and the other to the ships railing. No sooner than I had stationed myself firmly in a chair, radio in hand, had he rolled off of the deck and into the darkness.

 

  The search lamp had lent me vision of Phillip until a surprising depth, and passed that point I was able to make out his hand lamp for quite some time. He had told me over radio that the pillar widened in girth as he went deeper and deeper, and that more pillars were appearing from the nothingness. At this point I could no longer see his light, and in fact closed my as so as to focus on his words. He described to me what he could only think of as a sunken city, with pillars and spires jutting from sub aquatic cliffs, and deeper as he went holes began to appear in the pillars in the fashion of windows. I was lost in his words, mouth gaped in awe at the vision in my mind of this fantastic lost city.  

 

 The rope had lost all slack at this point, quite tightly pulled down. I urged him to surface as it wasn't safe to go deeper without his tether, but without so much as an acknowledgment I had felt the rope go limp, and his proclomation that he was at the base of the chasm. He had described a large hole in the center of the city, leaving very little room between itself and the buildings. What circumfrance of the plaza that was not occupied by the how was apparently adorned with statues of some description, age wiping away all but the simplest of details. At that point I had heard it, the sound that nearly caused me to throw my radio into the damnable sea. An extremely low pitched yet impossibly loud sound. Far too organic to have been cause by collapsing stone, and yet louder than any whale call I had heard in all of my years of sea faring. The sound that came after, though, was the sound that condemned me to a life on the shore. The sound that cast fear of the ocean into my heart, a fear so bold that I hadn't returned to the water since. It was Phillip, screaming an inhuman scream, shouting into his head radio "My God, you have to go! Cut the rope and go, now!" Then, nothing.

 

 I left Phillip there in the black abyssal water with whatever crawled out of that pit. The thing whose cyclopean moans will haunt me whether on land or at sea for the rest of my life. I hear that moan while walking the streets, while at home, while in my dreams. Seldom I go back to the docks and stare into the vast blue yonder, at the horizon. Horrified of the thoughts of strange creatures skulking the bottoms of trenches, creating deamoniacal alters to heathen gods and erecting their blasphemous towers. Terrified of the day the waters rise and reclaim us all as sons and daughters of the deep.

 


© Copyright 2019 Corey Rankin. All rights reserved.

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