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I'm sailing the Atlantic Coast of Africa, longitude and latitude unknown, at a date I no longer wish to even recall.
Finding myself in such a dire situation, it is in-line with my profession to document both my plight and it's still pilling list of consequences to the accepted boundaries of modern science, but just as these events haunt me, so too may that disturbance come across in my writing. Should this account ever reach the hands of the Press, or another researcher, and having it not been made redundant by either my survival or my sanity, I want it made clear who I am, and what has lead me to my impending doom.
My name is Jonathan Williams Oliveira, second oceanographer aboard the ''Carnby'' British research vessel, intent on the study of the over 3000 nautical miles between the south-most tip of the African continent, and the South Pole, in an effort to aid in the planning of future expeditions.
The year of my departure was 1940, month and days I will not recall.
Plans for this same expedition, and funding, started as far back as the Shackleton expedition, and it's many ventures. Even after delay by the Great War, and the fear of germanic Ocean-Raiders, the great influence and tenacity of Dr. Ernest still kept her in planning, even after his unfortunate death.
The year of my departure was 1940, month and days I will not recall.
Plans for this same expedition, and funding, started as far back as the Shackleton expedition, and it's many ventures. Even after delay by the Great War, and the fear of germanic Ocean-Raiders, the great influence and tenacity of Dr. Ernest still kept her in planning, even after his unfortunate death.
We first departed from the port of Portsmouth, where we loaded all the expensive cargo and equipment, and swiftly traveled down to the south of Portugal to gather experienced crew, and native speakers of the many African dialects we may meet on the way, to acquire aid in navigating trickier, windy, and rocky cliffs.
This final step is where warnings of our fate began. The boy was no older than 13, distinctly Moroccan, and very obviously not enthusiastic of our work. He'd been passed around from crew to crew, ship to ship, never staying too long in any port, according to my fellow researchers. He looked brittle, and his skin marked by the long exposure to salt, burnt in with the terrifying Equatorial sun he'd often find himself under. The stories I'd heard from fellow scientists indicated he had been brought on board because of how easily he seemed to pick up languages, but the sailors, the little I understood of their tales, said he was deeply connected to the sea, and could even be seen bracing for weather phenomena long before it became visible, not unlike how farm animals predict storms. I initially dismissed such superstition as seaman's folly, and went as far as to keep a close eye on the boy, just to see if he did actually exhibit any of this behavior.
He slept in the lower decks, in one of the cargo compartments, next to all the warmer clothes, or even near the burners, to stave off the cold, and could be seen staring out into the ocean, always away from the East, no matter the actual position of the ship. Wether he had been checking the instruments to know where to look, or if this was part of his relationship with the sea, I never discovered. He would eat raw oysters the sailors would give him out of fishing nets they would cast for fun and for meals, I never even saw him eat any other variety of sea-life, despite the rations we shared, and the ample fish the sailors would catch.(...)
(Page ends here. If I get some positive feedback I might finish this story. So please comment and give kudos, they're both very appreciated, and thank you for reading.)
This final step is where warnings of our fate began. The boy was no older than 13, distinctly Moroccan, and very obviously not enthusiastic of our work. He'd been passed around from crew to crew, ship to ship, never staying too long in any port, according to my fellow researchers. He looked brittle, and his skin marked by the long exposure to salt, burnt in with the terrifying Equatorial sun he'd often find himself under. The stories I'd heard from fellow scientists indicated he had been brought on board because of how easily he seemed to pick up languages, but the sailors, the little I understood of their tales, said he was deeply connected to the sea, and could even be seen bracing for weather phenomena long before it became visible, not unlike how farm animals predict storms. I initially dismissed such superstition as seaman's folly, and went as far as to keep a close eye on the boy, just to see if he did actually exhibit any of this behavior.
He slept in the lower decks, in one of the cargo compartments, next to all the warmer clothes, or even near the burners, to stave off the cold, and could be seen staring out into the ocean, always away from the East, no matter the actual position of the ship. Wether he had been checking the instruments to know where to look, or if this was part of his relationship with the sea, I never discovered. He would eat raw oysters the sailors would give him out of fishing nets they would cast for fun and for meals, I never even saw him eat any other variety of sea-life, despite the rations we shared, and the ample fish the sailors would catch.(...)
(Page ends here. If I get some positive feedback I might finish this story. So please comment and give kudos, they're both very appreciated, and thank you for reading.)
Comments
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DE Navarro
I like it, going on to part 2.
Ash Deranged
Sea of Thieves we go....
1940's ma'am
by O Alentejano; ; Report
Shhh...let me think it's a gaming reference here. xD
by Ash Deranged; ; Report
Jon 🐇
Very good! Puts me in mind of Harlan Ellison.
Keep going, what happens next? :O
thank you very much, jon.
i was going for lovecraft, but ellison is still a huge compliment, thank you
by O Alentejano; ; Report
R+C
In all honesty you are a superb writer
i never feel like one, greatly in part cause i cannot do this consistently
the spark hits, and i either capitalize or poof, it's gone.
by O Alentejano; ; Report
That’s the problem with inspiration. It easily comes and goes. Always keep a pen and paper handy
by R+C; ; Report
The muse is always very elusive
by R+C; ; Report