Stern

Richter burst into the bridge of what could charitably be called the “ship”. The winds were beating and bashing the ship and its crew so badly Richter had had to attempt to open the door at least five times. First it would open, giving him the faintest sliver of hope, before promptly slamming in his face.

Finally, though, he had beaten the storm in this single battle. “Captain!” he shouted.

“CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR OR YOU’LL GET ALL OUR SHIT WET,” He shouted, flinging his arm behind him to point at the amorphous mass of dry, dirty clothes. He soon after reaffirmed his grip on the wheel and began wildly jerking back and forth.

“How far until we reach the eye of the storm?” Richter asked as he once again fought the storm to get the door closed.

“THERE IS NO EYE, THERE’S NO FUCKING EYE, RICHTER!” He screamed, not hiding a single shred of fear in his voice, “WE’RE STUCK HERE UNTIL THE PIECE OF SHIT STORM GIVES UP AND GOES HOME.”

As the captain finished his sentence, the winds launched a haymaker at Richter and knocked him into a nearby stack of boxes.

“AH CHRIST, YOU FUCKING KLUTZ, THAT’S OUR EMERGENCY RATIONS. WE’RE GONNA NEED THEM IF WE WANT TO LIVE, DO YOU HEAR ME RICHTER? YOU SHITBAG.”

Richter was seriously considering whether it was better to be getting hurled abuse at by the captain or the storm. The captain had a slightly lower chance of killing him, albeit he was much more annoying. He stumbled to his feet and launched himself over to the deck door, finally closing it and making the storm outside a terrifying rumble, rather than a never -ending explosion.

“Right, now that we’ve got some breathing space, what’s the plan since this storm apparently has ‘no eye’,” he said, still shaking from his recent close encounter with some boxes.

“This is fucked, you hear me? This whole situation is just fucking FUCKED!” the captain stated as calmly as a man could in his position at that moment. He had always had this strange, particular style of speaking that emphasised words at random, punctuated by the regular expletive.

“I understand the situation, but if my understanding of the sea is correct, if there’s no eye to this storm then we just have to weather it until it goes away,” Richter opined.

The captain continued struggling with the wheel but made a face at Richter, a screwed up face that said either, “Yes, you completely get it,” or “You are so stupid I want to jam this wheel so far down your throat you could steer this ship by doing cartwheels.” Both men stood in silence staring at eachother as Richter contemplated the logistics of swallowing a giant spoked wheel, until the captain said, “Yes. I was hoping you’d find some other solution but we are just going to have to weather this ourselves.” No profanity, he was feeling sentimental; the odds were not good.

Before Richter could respond, banging came from the deck door, as if someone was trying to get in. The door blasted open and the never-ending explosions once again began. The storm came in and pushed Richter up against the wall, holding him up there and dishing out punches tinged with needles of water droplets. The water sloshing around the bridge was a mixture of water and blood as this man was beaten senseless.

The captain was still disoriented from the sudden blast of outside, but he had finally registered that somebody was in danger. He loosened his grip on the wheel to help, but the ship finally gained the freedom it was so desperately fighting for and began spinning wildly.

The captain was knocked hard against the floor and was being tossed around like a ragdoll. However, the motion of the ship was weakening the storm’s grip on Richter just enough for him to duck out of its grasp and stumble over to the wheel of the ship. Almost simultaneously, Richter halted the ship, leveraging his full weight on the other side of the wheel to stop it, and the captain slammed the door shut. The captain rushed over to the boxes and dragged them along the floor and up against the door so that they would be no longer disturbed.

The two were done exchanging words, giving eachother simple nods before the captain reassumed the wheel and Richter stared out the window looking for holes in the storm. As the hours rolled by, the storm continued in its ferocity. It tried to enter the bridge again, looking for a fight, but the captain’s improvised door lock (read: big box) held it back.

Soon, though, the storm eased ever so slightly. The roar had turned into a shout and it ceased its attempts to enter the deck again. Sunlight began poking through the blanket of grey clouds and the waves had begun being merely agitated, rather than enraged. As this process continued, thoughts of life and death drifted away from the men’s minds, being replaced with thoughts of warm beds and lovely dinners.

They stood beside eachother, battered, bruised, broken. The sunlight began streaming in through the windows, and they felt ready to continue.