Ownership

There were three men upon the deck of the <i>Windsprint</i>. The Captain, a tall, lean man with dark hair and a salty beard, was hunched on the deck, his eyes darting across the roiling sea in fear of a rogue wave that could swamp the small schooner. Calling out orders in a hoarse shout and shaking the sea from his hair, he guided his craft carefully through the mountainous waves.

The second man was affectionately referred to as the Bosun, though the chain of command was really more of a suggestion upon the <i>Windsprint</i>. As a wiry man with clear blue eyes and a frank mouth, he might as well have been born upon the ocean, and one might expect him humourously to walk on land as a lubber might walk on a ship's deck.

He was a mute, couldn't speak a word, presumably due to a birth defect of the tongue. He made nary a grunt, laugh, or cry. The Captain figured it was ideal, a man who did his job without protest.

The last man, I, was a fair-haired boy of twenty-one. Despite what the Captain thought, I was a perfectly adequate, if not outstanding - though I'd hate to brag - ship commander. Despite the Mute Bosun's obvious capability, he was not considered for the role of Captainship, as, in the Captain's very own words, "You can't order a crew about without speaking a word."

The role I currently held, however, was the navigator. Unfortunately, I had navigated us into a storm.

There was a tremendous whip crack upon the aft chains and the Captain's eyes darted to it in a second. He muttered a curse and motioned toward me.

'Here, boy, hold her steady.'

The wind whipped his words away but I understood the meaning and did so, gripping the sodden wheel with the same vice grip that he had been employing moments earlier. The Captain, in the meantime, had begun to make his way to the port side chains, brandishing from beneath his coat a wicked dive knife. Upon reaching the railing, he swung a leg over the taffrail and began hacking at a tangled mess of rope that had gathered just below the high water mark.

The Bosun, in the meantime, had clambered up the rigging and was struggling to free the jib, which had been locked tight to the mast from the wind. His face was contorted with exertion.

I, on the other hand, was elated. The feeling of subtly controlling a ship of that magnitude with the wheel in your hands was indescribably intoxicating. The wind and rain pulled at my hair and clothing and the deck swayed beneath my feet. I could feel my lips part and my eyes squint in a devilish grin.

At last, the Bosun freed the caught sail and with an almighty flap it caught the wind, missing his head by near inches. The Captain was not so lucky. A cry alerted me to the crimson cut he had inflicted upon his knuckles in his attempt to dodge the freely swinging boom and in a second he hung by his good hand, poised over the fiercely thrashing sea.