Shipwreck
Writing stimulus posted by Hornsby Shire Libraries: Painting by J Pinto, 1886
The narrator was supposed to be in the lighthouse, but the ocean's my home; I opted to be the ship and am sure the man inside the beacon felt just like me, only he was safe...
A lucent full moon was beaming and gleaming in an inky black sky, washing the passengers wining and dining on my deck with her gentle silver glow. Waves were sloshing, splish-splash splish-splash, gently against my iron flanks engraved with 'The Mighty Moor' in white paint. A few skiffs, hanging from the starboard, were swaying in a rhythm the crests created taking turns. Not far away, a dark silhouette of my destination, marked by a flashing light from the lighthouse, was wavering through the salty breeze. I was overcome with relief and joy, I'd safely deliver home my precious passengers and commodities I was entrusted with. The man in the lighthouse, recording my coordinates and knots - my vital statistics - was equally eager and prepared to welcome us.
But ominously the crests started swelling. Thick clouds, as if conjured by some dark magic, scudded across the sky and devoured the silver salver portentously. The black carpet of water merged with grey sky and threw me ruthlessly into the roiling depths of the sea one moment and buffeted me up the other. Exacting it was, yet I relentlessly waded along knowing quite well I was in the safe hands of my beloved Captain Phillips. He steered and wheeled the wooden helm, shouted commands at the crew, and sent SOS signals seeking aid - all at once, his senses working as immaculately as a machine.
I shoved and battled the raging waves, leaping upto a metre now, to make my way to the feeble silhouette inch by inch. The deep sea is safer than the shallow stony shore, I uttered to myself through clenched jaws, yet I was scheduled to be moored there before midnight, I couldn't afford to fail my Captain. Like a paper boat fighting to stay afloat in a muddy rivulet, I bobbed helplessly, precariously, my iron body no match to the tempest that had incensed the waves. My only hope was the golden dot of lighthouse; the man inside might be growing as much distressed and powerless in the face of the turbulence as we were by the second.
After about half an hour that appeared to be ages, I was readied to be docked at the Clooney Bay; but to their utmost horror, my crew realised we had drifted further north to a relatively rockier coast of Melony Clove. Before long, as the fate would have it, my hull hit the tip of a promontory. Pandemonium broke on my deck as I reeled and keeled. The handful of elite passengers I was carrying were urged into the skiffs, the crew members tied themselves up with a hawser and jumped into the icy dark waters, while the Captain held the helm with gritted teeth till everyone was apparently safe. Monstrous waves splashed and dashed on my deck, and in no time I crumbled under the intense pressure. A crack made its way right through my middle and split me within minutes, as if I were made of fragile wood.
The aft and fore dipped in the dark depths while the centre heaved up like a huge whale. As I sank into the calimg depths, I relished the sight of the little dinghies floating up to the shore; they'd be safe with the man in the lighthouse, were my last thoughts. The flotsam and jetsam would be salvaged by the light of the day, I assured myself. Most of the precious commodities would be recovered when the storm and gale abated, I assumed. It was time for me to lie on the soft sand bed peacefully with my Captain at my helm, our filial connection buried, unsevered forever.
Dona, Sydney, Aug 2021
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