The Unreachable Sea Wife E-Book

Christian Stahl

• Herausgeber: Medialuck Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A worldwide catastrophe has left two young lovers separated on the opposite sides of the world. The only way to reach his future wife was to get on a boat, and although he didn’t own one he knew how to get one. The single-handed sailing trip would go from the Mediterranean to India until he’d reach Southeast Asia, where his almost unreachable sea wife was waiting for him, or so he thought. He had no idea of all the strange things that would happen to him, of all the foreign creatures and evil forces that would demand their pound of flesh of him.

Leseprobe

The Unreachable Sea Wife

A Short Story

Christian Stahl

© Copyright 2021 by Christian Stahl - All rights reserved

License Notice

In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, download, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format without the consent of the author or publisher. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher.

All rights reserved

The purpose of this book is for entertainment purposes solely, and is universal as so. Any name and content in this book is fiction and not related to any real events or persons. Under no circumstances will any legal responsibility or blame be held against the publisher or author for any reparation, damages, or monetary loss due to the information herein, either directly or indirectly. The presentation and content of this book is without contract or any type of guarantee assurance.

Christian Stahl

Details of all the author's available books and upcoming titles can be found at:

www.yachtshortstories.com

“Yacht Short Story Mysteries - A Collection of Sailing Horror Stories”

Contents

The Unreachable Sea Wife

The Unreachable Sea Wife

The whispers of the waves crept in through the netted curtains that covered the balcony doors that I’ve left open. The Spanish sea breeze still feels foreign and peculiar to me; I suppose it’s a reminder that I’m not where I’m supposed to be. The morning air I’m used to is full of fumes of foods being prepared for the Asian markets, I miss that warm, comforting smell. Even when you could hear market traders shouting to one another, their tone came across as friendly. Home seems further away than ever now that I know I can’t get there. And so does she. Our regular messages make things better temporarily, but once the day has gone, the bed feels empty and no message can fill that.

The little money I have doesn’t feel worth saving. There’s barely enough to cover the costs of transport to the nearest airport, so why bother even considering scraping together funds for a flight that costs nearly as much as a house deposit? Every time I come close to beginning to save up, I find myself back in the pub; repeating my ordeal to any regular who’s willing to listen again. Before long, I notice how my words seem to dribble out and my voice is just a whir of noise that I can’t properly concentrate on. When the football begins, anyone who was listening stops, apart from the occasional remark or frown when I accidentally criticise the wrong team or player.

Then the routine continues. I wake up to the churning of the ceiling fan, barely creating a single waft of air in the sticky, humid bedroom. The heat is usually what wakes me up, and that’s how I know it’s most likely early afternoon. That’s how I know I’ve wasted yet another day. I often find myself pondering over how my life has come to this, “So much life ahead of you, Tim” my grandma would always say, and I feel ashamed at the thought of her seeing me now. I then contemplate where my life will go from here. Sometimes it feels like I’m completely trapped and that one day someone will find me dead in this very bed, I’ll be Tim- the drunk from the football bars who drank himself to death. I don’t think I’m awake when I have these thoughts, because sometimes the scenes are too vivid to have been created by my imagination alone. There’s flies nibbling at my lifeless body as it rots—waiting for someone to come and find me. I wake up panting, relieved to be alive and then disappointed by having no need to wake up.

Other times as I drift in between a deep sleep and being conscious of my sore, hungover body and the accumulating damage I’m doing to it. The sound of the Spanish shore influences my mind and I dream of being rocked in a sailing boat.

I remember my lifelong dream of being an owner of something, a house or anything that really belongs to me, and now it is obvious that there is such a thing, a manageable sailboat they can sail off into the sunset to find my unreachable future wife who for that matter also belongs for me. And If I ever do a solo sailing half around the world I will call my boat Sea Wife. I can hear the mast of the boat squeaking and the sails flapping as the wind carries me along the waves. I’m lying with my back flat against the deck, looking at the clouds as they tumble and twirl through the sky. The rhythmic swaying of the ship soothes me; it’s almost as comforting as the thought of the boat taking me away. Away from Spain and my spiral into some sort of catastrophe and maybe towards Asia. It continues to rock me until my mind has completely left the bedroom and the whirring ceiling fan, a deep sleep begins that I don’t want to wake up from.

Eventually I do wake up. Five hours I guess is how long I’ve slept for, there’s another message from her that I don’t remember seeing. She’s not even asking when I’ll be back now, but if. I can’t respond because I don’t know the answer. I wish I did. Things would be more bearable if I at least knew how much longer I’d have to endure this. I feel like I’ve lost my true self here, like I left myself behind when I left Asia. It’s not the same as when I left Britain for Asia; the rural areas that were coated in a rich green colour, blossom and tranquil waters combined with the cities that were packed with people and possibilities felt like my natural habitat. Whilst a part of me will always belong to Britain, another part will always long for Asia.

I sit up in my bed, the sheets crumpled in a pile by my feet. A fly swirls in from the balcony and heads towards me. He inspects me and then leaves. Perhaps he’s checking to see if I’m a rotting dead body yet, like the one I become in my dreams. I start to realise that will become a reality if I don’t do something now. Initially, my mind is full of useless ideas, so I open up my laptop and begin looking for answers. A couple of YouTube videos enforce what I am already starting to understand—I need to change things now. I check the costs of flights once more, but the prices have only gone up if anything. Some suggestions appear for taking a few ferries, however there’s no direct route so it would end up costing me as much as the plane tickets. As I start tracing the different courses the ferries would take, I remember my dream about the boat.

Whilst I’m no expert in sailing, I don’t remember it as being particularly challenging from what I can recall of the day my mother and I hired a boat when I was younger. That could be it, I could sail back to Asia! The trouble is I’d need a boat. I suppose I could hire one and then not return–but they would know who had taken it, it would be a risky move. I head out onto the small balcony where I can stare at the waves rolling in and the horizon: a place I could be crossing sometime soon. My eyes begin to wander to the ground and as they do, I notice what appears to be a headsail propped up against the fence in my neighbour’s front garden.

I see a sailboat on a trailer that apparently had been rerigged, repainted and has the motor mounted on the winch post for transport.

Then things begin to come back to me. I remember having a brief conversation with him a few weeks back and he’d mentioned that he was going out to sea for the weekend. I hadn’t properly understood what he meant by that until now. In fact, I hadn’t understood a lot of what he said; he’s German and his English is very limited. I would have perhaps taken a little more time to interpret what he was telling me, but he spoke mostly about himself in a very proud manner and it only made me feel more ashamed of my situation.

I spend the next few days taking my time leaving the apartment to run unimportant errands; the real goal of each trip out is to inspect my neighbour’s boat. It’s a reasonable size and sits on a trailer that I’m sure I’m capable of pulling. Fortunately, the lane my apartment resides on is quiet and goes directly to the port; the journey to it would be a struggle but, at least it would be short. I don’t pay as many visits to the pub, although sometimes I find myself back in there, numbing the harsh reality that, whilst I now have an opportunity to get out of here, the journey ahead isn’t going to be easy. Some days it feels easier to back out and stay here for a while. But I’ve spent time looking at maps, planning out a route and, with any luck, I could be out of here by Christmas and in Asia at some point in the New Year.

The boat is a humble size, a beautiful white 26 footerwith a long fin keel and what looked like an unusual large cockpit, certainly a German design probably built for the Baltic Sea; I can feel the excitementand curiosity in my body as I know I am it’s only me who would be using it. The sails are a rich, white fabric; they look as though they’ve not been out to sea yet. On one evening I get close enough to spot that the boat is called Helga, the dude’s dead wife I think.

I stumble back into my apartment. Occasionally I’ll pay attention to my reflection in the mirror. The heavy bags under my brown eyes have started to fade, but they’ll never completely vanish–like a deep scar. My dark, short hair is still receding more rapidly than I’d like and my thin, bony frame that carries a round tummy caused by beer seems to have plumped up a little. When I bother to shave off the stubble on my chin, my skin appears paler than I remember, although if I spend enough time in the sun, I collect freckles that warm it up.

I then start to pack up my things. I haven’t got much to take, just a couple of bags altogether. I look around my nearly empty apartment and realise I have no emotional connection to it–at least none that are positive. I’ve been here for a while now but almost everyday I hope it’ll be my last; that I’ll somehow be whisked back to Asia by the next morning. Now, that seems like less of a dream.

Eventually the day I’ve planned to leave on arrives. I wait until the sky has become dark enough to cover the crime I am about to commit, and I sit listening for movement from my neighbour through the walls. The prospect of what is ahead of me is difficult to comprehend. As I begin to consider the problems that could arise, such as being caught by my neighbour, getting lost at sea, capsizing. I check my phone for messages; it’s been a while since I last heard from my girlfriend, once I get back to Asia, I’ll look for her. I find that my fingertips are pulsating, and my hands are trembling. I take out the cheap bottle of liquor I had left in the kitchen and begin to swig from it, at first to calm the physical shaking and then to stop my thoughts from persuading me to not go ahead with my endeavours. Perhaps I drink a little too much as I notice the walls around me begin to spin, under my breath, I tell myself to get a grip.

After about half an hour of no noise from the neighbour, it’s time for me to begin my journey. The liquor sits at the top of my stomach, but I know this is because I’m nervous. I contemplate sitting for another fifteen minutes, listening out for anything other than silence and then I talk myself out of it; I could sit here all night, building up the courage to leave.

With my bag slumped over my shoulder, I lock up the apartment for the final time. The air feels particularly still tonight, barely any breeze and the only thing I can hear is the occasional insect of some kind chirping in the bushes. I try to tread as lightly as I approach my neighbour’s garden, the liquor causes me to sway more than I’d like. The moonlight reflects off of the white hull of the sailing boat. I inspect the windows that overlook the garden; it seems to be lifeless for now. I drop my bags into the boat and release the handbrake of the trailer slowly, the creaking of it interrupts the silence of the night and I wince, looking up at the windows again.

My old but fat-ass pick up truck will do the job to tow it down the road to the docks which I think is about an hour drive. I work as quick as I can to set up a line from the back of the towing boat to the front of the towed boat, trying what is supposed to be a stern tow. That German idiot will be surprised so badly and his face would be worth watching when he finds out his baby is gone.

The journey to the port is much longer than I expected, I’d thought that the lane was relatively downhill but there was a lot more heaving of the trailer and negotiating corners compared to what I had anticipated. I don’t remember ever having to do such strenuous physical activity, but there’s a survival instinct within me now that urges me to carry on. By the time I arrive at the port, morning has broken, and a few people have started their day near the dock. I am relieved to discover that no one seems to be confused or interested in my behaviour, despite, in my opinion, it being quite bizarre. I take a long rest by the port, facing the sea. For the first time, I pay attention to just how vast it is. If I were to go missing, no one would ever find me.

I let the day creep away as I sip on a bottle of water I have packed, I feel completely sober by now and the magnitude of what I have already done catches up with me, if my neighbour finds me here, how will I explain myself? The thought of that motivates me to continue with my journey, I get up and start tugging the trailer down the shore ramp. Without the alcohol in my system, the work seems even more difficult. I notice sweat trickling down my forehead almost instantly and the skin on my hands is raw from all of the tugging.

My boat is a pig to get off the trailer but with the help of a non-English speaking Spaniard, I finally got the boat into the water and climb in.

The six-horsepower Johnson outboard starts on the first pull and I smuggle the boat out of the marina. I am able to work out the direction of the wind and trim the sails, the lift perhaps could be better, but I keep reefing the mainsail until I am satisfied with my speed. I am hardly out of the port, but between yanking lines and checking the instruments, I look at the sea. Especially now in the morning hours it seems to be more mesmerising than it was in my dreams, I watch the waves coil up and engulf one another, they make a sloshing noise as they do.

As I get further out to the Mediterranean Sea the waters begin to get choppier. By mid day the wind freshens into the south and Sea Wife’s heavy bows are chopping with a perceptible shudder into each new wave. Each of the waves seem to be bigger and more violent than the last and, as the boat just about manages to recover from the impact from the last, I wonder whether the next wave will be the one to capsize me. Every one smacks into the boat, almost knocking me off my feet and I get sprayed by the salty seawater until I’m completely soaked. I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but the waters eventually begin to calm.

I further shorten the headsail to reduce the strain on the helm, and once I have recovered from the choppy waters and adjusted my sails again, I put Sea Wife on autopilot. Over the next few days, I sleep and rest only disturbed by the radar alarm which I ignore. On the fourth day I spot land in the distance. As I begin to approach it, I grow more certain that my directions and predictions are correct: it’s Sardinia. I waste no time in collecting supplies from the local shops and then I sit and reflect on how far away my little Spanish apartment seems now. For the first time, I’m not thinking about the distance I have left to travel, although it is in the back of my mind, I’m proud and excited by the fact that I have managed to negotiate a sailing boat all the way to Sardinia. I have a new energy within me and I’m ready for the adventures, and perhaps risks, that are ahead of me.

The sailing techniques come more naturally to me as I leave Sardinia for Malta. I find myself rhythmically tugging at ropes and I seem to have found more of a flow to the routine and I make less clumsy mistakes. The journey over to Malta in general feels smoother than my initial trip and I begin to enjoy sailing, my anxieties over things that could go wrong have settled. I look through my binoculars at some land that I hope is Malta, just in front of it is a small boat, which initially excites me; so far I have only seen the occasional ferry or tanker in the distance and the prospect of seeing people out at sea excites me.

Eventually I am close enough to make out individual figures within the boat. There seems to be several men, I believe, tightly packed into what can’t be more than a dinghy. I then realise I may be getting to close to them to avoid a crash. I’m not sure which boat could take responsibility, but we narrowly avoid each other. A concern grows within me that they might attempt to hijack my sailing boat; it’s much more substantial than theirs. “Don’t you dare come near me,” I shout to them. They begin to respond in a language I don’t understand, some shouting whilst some seem to be pleading. “I have nothing for you, I have my own troubles to deal with and I don’t want you lot getting in the way.” They start to raise their arms and flap them around in the air, annunciating whatever point they’re trying to make. I become aware of the fact that they completely outnumber me, aside from a glass bottle that I could potentially smash, I have very little in the way of defending myself. Even though I am not entirely sure they have understood me, I can tell I have angered them, and I decide to continue to sail towards the island in order to avoid any unnecessary conflict. We exchange looks of disgust as we pass each other and then drift in separate directions.

After a night’s sleep that was surprisingly one of the best I’ve had in a long time, I set off for my next destination: Crete. The temperature slowly creeps up during the day and I find myself struggling to function at my normal pace, everything seems to require a little more effort under the intense heat of the sun. The water is exceptionally clear as I sail closer to the shore. The sea floor looks to be only inches away, and I have to resist the temptation to reach in and take a shell or some seaweed. I’m concerned about dehydrating and overheating if I sleep anywhere that is particularly exposed to the sun. I take my time inspecting several locations before settling on a cool, damp cave. The moisture within the cave drips often throughout the night and each time it wakes me up–I think once I’m sleeping I feel particularly vulnerable; what if my German neighbour has somehow tracked me and his boat down, or what if the migrants have decided to come back ready to return the insult? These thoughts become more rational the darker it gets.

My voyage to Egypt runs smoothly to begin with. I have adjusted to the heat relatively quickly and find it easier to negotiate with the wind this time. Once I approach Egypt, however, things suddenly become complicated. I reach the Suez canal passage and several armed officers greet me in a small ship. Without my permission, they clamber on board my boat. Initially, they say very few words, only looking me up and down and muttering amongst themselves. It makes me wonder what exactly they’re after and I notice my t-shirt is drenched in sweat and in general, my appearance has become quite scruffy. I worry about them realising the boat is stolen; I suppose I can tell them I am my German neighbour if it comes to that. Two of them stand watching me, they don’t have to forcibly stop me, but I’m reluctant to stop the other two who begin digging around in my belongings. “Valuables?” One asks. I don’t need to lie; I have nothing sentimental and I’ve never been particularly materialistic.

“N-no.” I respond, blushing as I struggle to get my words out. One of the guards staring at me then begins to tug at my clothes—I think he’s after my money. Whilst I’d been sensible and distributed my money into several smaller stashes around the boat, it’s inevitable that they will find some of them. He plucks out the wad of notes I have in my back pocket and then another man retrieves some from the tin I’d tucked away. Eventually, I’m pretty sure they’ve found every penny I own.

“500 dollar.” One of the guards shouts at me. That’s almost half of what I’ve got altogether.

“Please no, what can I give you, something else please?”

“500 dollar. That’s what we want.” I look around frantically for anything of value; money is essential to me at the moment.

“Fine, 550.” The guard demands impatiently.

“No! Okay 500, I’ll pay 500.” I say, defeated. I am far too intimidated by the clunky guns they carry around that I’m sure could kill me without them even needing to pull the trigger. I watch them tuck the notes into their pockets and then toss the rest onto the pile of my belongings they have rummaged through. I look at it pathetically. How is that supposed to get me to Asia? I was already tight for money and now I have no idea how I’m supposed to stretch half of my money to last me for the rest of my journey.

After recovering from my trauma of the canal and the authorities, I reach the Red Sea. I chuckled to myself as I thought of the days when I was naïve enough to believe it was actually red in colour. Then I think about my other naiveties; believing I could sail all the way to Asia without any issues was one. I look down at the churning water; it’s very dark, much richer and opaque than any sea I’d seen before. Nothing like the clarity of the water in Crete. The blue colour is much deeper, as though there’s secrets lurking underneath, I sit down for a moment, feeling comfort and security in the solid base of my boat.

As the night rolls in, the overcast sky begins to match the water and I feel completely surrounded by darkness, and completely alone. I head to the other end of the boat to tighten one of the ropes and I completely miss a step. Before I know it, I’m gasping for a breath and trying to tread water. I gulp down several mouthfuls of the sea, panicking as the cold slows my limbs down. I look around me for something to grab onto, now realising the importance of a security line. As the water sloshes over me, I realise that some of the peaks that just seem to be waves about to break aren’t waves at all—they’re fins. In every direction I look there seems to be another one, like peaks in a mountain range. I scramble towards the boat, barely able to feel my limbs. My hands slip as I try to find anything substantial to grip onto, avoiding looking at what lurks in the darkness behind me. Although it feels like a long haul, I’m certain I pull myself back onto the boat within a few seconds. I lie there for a few minutes, panting, baffled by my luck.

The next morning, I sail north towards Oman, it takes me a while to digest how close I was to death the night before, I grow concerned for what’s in store for me next. I arrive in the city of Salalah and as I approach the port, I can see a few locals beginning to gather. They watch me with intrigue, and I feel outcasted; I seem to be the only foreigner here. When I arrive, they begin to talk to me, taking it in turns to take my hand or put theirs out. They start to claim I need to pay port fees, but there are inconsistencies in price and I’m almost certain they see me as a wealthy foreigner. I tell them I need to make some arrangements first and, eventually, they reluctantly agree.

I find a hostel I can stay in for the night and settle on a top bunk. Below me there is a young girl, she freely leaves her backpack, no doubt full of belongings and money, open and in reach. I think of her ignorance and how she can trust others. She must have made the assumption that I’m not desperately interested in her money, let alone a criminal. I wait until the middle of the night and climb down to use the bathroom. On my return I notice everyone else in the room is sleeping soundly, so I take the opportunity to rummage through her bag. Altogether, she only seems to have 25 dollars, but it’s money I’m in desperate need of, so I take it. I’m about to get back into bed when I consider the prospect of the girl waking up to find her money gone. No doubt she’d interrogate everyone in the room. I make the decision to head back to the port and begin sailing, that way I can avoid negotiating with the locals over port fees as well.

I take very little time gathering together what I’d brought with me to the hostel and hurry back to the port. I feel that I stand out here as the only foreigner, so I rush back to my boat as fast as I can, afraid again that they’ll make the assumption that I’m rich. When I eventually reach the boat, I untie it as fast as I can and then begin to set sail. I start heading eastward, with India in my sights.

It takes what feels like a little longer to get there this time; perhaps because the end doesn’t seem so far away and my desperation as I reach where I need to be is only increasing. I am extremely thirsty when I arrive and once I’ve sourced some water, I begin to take in the scenery. Goa is perhaps the most beautiful of the places I have stopped at so far–that might be because of the relief I feel after finally arriving. The beachfront is coated in lush green palm trees; each one looks like it’s been naturally sculpted to perfection. The soft sand is warm and comforts my feet as I wander around with no real plan of where to go. The people flattened out, absorbing the last of the day’s sun are so still that they seem to be like part of the landscape. There’s beach huts in every colour that line the border where the beach meets the road, almost every single one has been opened up, revealing clutter inside. I notice a pretty looking girl dash out of one hut, almost dancing instead of running, and she throws her head back to let out a laugh of pure delight. Her giggle is completely captivating; it is sweet and silky like honey and I’m drawn to her immediately.

I sit on the beach for a few hours, sifting sand through my fingers until I eventually find the courage to go and speak to the girl–her friends left a few minutes ago.

“Do you speak English?” She looks up at me with wide, bright eyes.

“A little. It’s not perfect.”

“You’re doing well so far. Where are you from? I would guess somewhere in Europe from your accent.”

“Russia, although it has been a while since I have been home.”

“Me too.” I say, and I proceed to tell her the story of my journey so far.

We talked until the sun set and began to rise again. It was only when she asked me where I planned to go from Goa that I remembered the entire purpose of my journey. There were several moments where I felt like an entirely different man: there’s so much distance between me right now, feeling euphoric, and the person who lay in bed until he was sobering, reading messages from a former girlfriend. It’s been a long time since she ignored my message and as I sit, taking in the sun and the joy this Russian girl, Aleksandra, is giving me, I can’t say I miss her.

After a few days together in Goa, myself and Aleksandra decide to set sail together. She seems to have a lot more money than me but doesn’t mind my humble sailing boat. After re-provisioning and topping up the tanks with water and fuel, I set a course for the Andaman Sea.

My last passage from India to Malaysia is extra pleasant, just a light wind closed hauled and a pretty flat sea. We arrive in Penang and by now we’re completely besotted by one another.

The evening begins to creep in, and we find Chulia Street in George Town. It’s littered with bars, tables and people; all mingled together. Whilst it initially seems crowded, once we start to walk through it seems to widen and welcome us–the crowd engulfing us. We start to hop between bars. Despite them being packed tightly together, each one is distinctive with its own individual smells and sounds. We buy a variety of drinks and a little food and the night turns hazy.

I don’t recall losing Aleksandra, or exactly how much alcohol we consumed, but I’m stumbling down the street, perhaps shouting I’m not too sure. There are two ladies lingering outside a massage parlour, both puffing on cigarettes. I make the assumption that they work there and are on their break. One seems familiar, I rub my eyes as if to sober them up but I am unsure of whether it’s my imagination. She looks like a girl I was in love with for a very long time. In fact I don’t think I ever fell out of love with her, just accepted we couldn’t be together. I grow more certain that it’s her.

“My love, my darling!”

“Excuse me?” She responds, blankly.

“I have found you, after all this time.”

“Are you lost?” I’m not really paying attention to what she’s saying anymore.

“Come with me, I’ll take care of you now. We are meant to be together.”

“What’s he on about?” She mutters to her friend.

“I’m telling you I love you and I’m here to save you!”

“What’s going on over here?” Two police officers interrupt. They begin to ask me why I’m talking to the girls; I stumble on my words as I try to explain my situation–they only seem interested when I mention that I’m trying to rescue her.

Within a few hours, my ordeal becomes a bit of a sensation. I find myself talking to journalists and reporters who exaggerate every word I say. They tell me that the girls were foreign and forced into working at the massage parlours. They keep telling me I’ve done an amazing thing and that I’ll be remembered as a hero. I thank them, becoming more unsure of what I actually did as I sober up. The girl does not become any less beautiful though and I start to imagine a life with her. However, I can’t find her.

My time alone allows me to reflect on the things I have done. I think about my boat; except it’s not my boat. I’ve not really thought about my German neighbour and how he might have reacted. Perhaps I could return to Europe, give him his boat back and go from there. Money is running low but it seems I’ll always find a way.

I begin untying my boat when the girl returns; everything is coming together! Then a man appears from behind her and takes her hand, she looks at me shamefully and apologetically. I understand she has her own life to live and we bid each other goodbye.

I set off again, with no real goal of where to go from here. I don’t feel like I have a proper home anymore, I suppose my boat is my home now, and if this is where I spend the rest of my life, however long it may be, then so be it.

“Yacht Short Story Mysteries - A Collection of Sailing Horror Stories”