Soap Scum and Brine (Part 1)

The great and vast ocean was deceptively calm as they slowly made progress above its surface, the tiny ripples multiplying and multiplying again. In the dark depths, strange creatures felt the movement and ripples and shied away from them, fearing the giant manmade wooden fish.

The Captain had 40 years of sailing and commandeering under his belt, and he knew the sea like it was his wife. His actual wife was thousands of miles away and it was her birthday today, he hadn’t thought about her once since he woke up with a real bastard of a rum hangover.

He could almost smell what was at hand in the salty tang of the fresh sea air, blowing against his ruddy cheeks and tangled grey beard. The sea was silent in fear and anticipation. In the calm waters he felt not peace, but thinly veiled fear. Dark forces were moving against them. At times like this a lesser man would feel vulnerable in what is basically a glorified tub made of wood surrounded by an unfathomable amount of undrinkable water and deadly creatures lurking in the depths.

But not The Captain, he steeled himself, his brow furrowing in concentration and one of his salt and pepper eyebrows disappearing behind his eye patch, as if it wasn’t quite as brave as he was. He barked orders to his men and they obeyed instantly and in silence, the eerie calm of the sea and the window broken only by occasional grunts and bangs, and the thuds of footprints on old timber as they ran back and forward across deck.

“Raise the sails! Man the cannons! Pray fer Nepture to save your booties men!”
The men were ready, The Captain was ready, but for what he wasn’t sure. Ahead he saw a bank of fog emerge, both thick and gaseous in the bizarre way that fog is. It was almost like a wall of white foam and sea scum before them.

The Captain barked more commands,
“Ahoy in the crow’s nest! What lies beyon’ thine infernal fog?”
“I can’t see cap’n! All I see is white!”
The Captain rapped the deck with his peg leg as he paced in frustration, his confidence turning into niggling doubt, he needed a glass of port to steady himself, but he couldn’t let his men know that. The last thing he wanted now was thoughts of mutiny.

“Yer useless! Who’s the one with the eyepatch, me or ye?”
The swabbie in the crow’s nest stammered back,
“S-s-sorry cap’n! There ain’t nothin’ beyond that fog, I can’t see no danger!”
The men relaxed slightly and The Captain spied some of them moving away from the cannons and sails. He rapped the deck with his wooden leg 3 times in succession “Ye swabbies! Ye don’t move until I says so, unless ye wanna move yer hides overboard into the briny depths! We’ll see if there’s no danger then!”

They all moved back to their positions, some of them looking embarrassed. The Captain made note of both the disobedience and the obedience in equal measure. He didn’t get to be an unchallenged captain for all these years by not noticing his men’s behaviour.

Suddenly, the fog was upon them. The eerie quiet became more profound as the ship held its collective breath. Even the vessel itself seemed to hold its air in anticipation, its heaves and sighs fading to silence. The blanket of bubbly fog made the silence even more apparent, like when our other senses become heightened when one was obscured.

His weary old heart began to do a jig in his chest, underneath his scarred flesh. This fog was like nothing they had ever seen before. It was thick enough to choke on, and it actually lay on deck in small bubbly piles, and it smelt strongly of soap and cleanliness, two things which were absolutely abhorrent to the crew. One or two of the more seaworthy men considered jumping over board and taking their chances with the sharks rather than risk being cleaned.

The Captain, who had lost his arm when wrestling a shark, had lost his leg in a battle with the Kraken, and had lost his eye when he tripped over his wooden leg and accidently skewered it on his hook after one too many rums, felt no fear, but the cold sweat on his body and his dry mouth seemed to suggest otherwise.

Crackling in a bizarre chorus as the bubbles within it burst in random rhythm, the fog grew even thicker, and the men began to choke and cough. The Captain shouted through a mouthful of bubbles, “Full speed ahead men! Hoist the main sail to full mast!” and afterwards entered into a coughing fit that ended in a vomiting fit.

He had never been sea sick, but being a self respecting pirate and captain he was obviously no stranger to vomiting after too much booze so this was nothing new. Around him he could hear the rest of his crew begin to cough and choke, and as he opened his eyes to try and see around him, they burned and ran hot with tears as the bubbles invaded yet another entrance to his body.

“Arrr, thar’s vinegar in me eyes!” One of the men coughed through the haze and panic. The Captain thought that was an appropriate metaphor to describe their current predicament, but of course, in less flowery language. It was now impossible for him to draw breath and he felt the ship spinning around him as the corners of his mind began to darken and fade into the haze of asphyxiation. The boat began to lurch and twist around him as if riding on the storm of the century...