Sex & the Seafarer

It may have been our most violent storm
tho' by no means the dirtiest of my sailing career--
a crazy marriage of sea and sky
with highs and lows enough to crush the heart of any man
but somehow,
all three of us
survived.

For most of the trip
the smiling Italian I'd hired as crew
to help with the night watches from Malta
lay sick and greening on his bunk.
The ripple of taut young muscles
as useless as a lawnmower on deck,
for whenever a wave broke
he would roll his dark eyes politely,
mutter for his mother and then puke.

My charming wife,
clung on with her customary resilience in a blow
tenaciously nurturing her own personal demons
as she longed for ski slopes on far off mountains
and the thrill of shopping or expensive tango lessons.
Ashen faced and chewing the ends of her hair
she wedged herself stubbornly below
refusing to make coffee
a land flower far too fragile
for even a five minute spell at the wheel.

Once,
in 48 hours
she stuck her head up through the hatch
for a few moments only
to check the liferaft had not been swept away.
She cursed our union,
the boats I'd poured my life into
the black stars that had lured her
to this miserable existence at sea
before finally
she withdrew
shutting out the desperate shrieking wind
the anger and the spray
& naturally
I was the one to blame
always the blame fell on me.

After two nights without sleep
slamming up and down through
every bone jarring jolt
peekabooing with death
in a sodden version of sailboat hell
they never quite capture in the movies
you stink
mostly of the stale piss in your wet gear.

You begin to hear things,
voices of people you knew.
You see land you know can't be there
and if you're not careful
you can even accept
the things you've always believed weren't true.
And after all that
even if your boat's still in one piece
your heart can still get shredded
to be scattered across oceans
while the teeth of fear and fatigue
sink gleefully into your soul.

But somehow,
with the last drop of diesel
I manage to ease us to the shelter of the bay.
My bruised head throbs with relief
as we tiptoe into calm water
for the final steps in our brutal ballet.
My hands tremble while I free the chain from the windlass
and before the anchor can bite
I'm already dead
asleep on deck in the bows.

Some hours later
something is niggling my sailor's ear
a sound both familiar and strange.
At first I imagine it's a rope
a slap, slap, slapping
Something loose?
Trouble with the rigging?

My neck feels stiffer than sun baked seaweed
washed up to die on the highest Spring tide
but I manage to crane my head aft
to stare into the cockpit
where the Italian
and my wife
are unashamedly making love.

The whites of her eyes
are pleading
He is grunting
as he takes her from behind
slap, slap, slap
all those muscles
beginning to work at last
and for once
his face is red

My wife,
clings on bravely
her knuckles fused
around the teak spokes of the wheel
She hangs in there,
as if her life depends upon it
and I understand
she could never let go
not even if she wanted to

Slap, slap, slap
slap, slap, slap

She is moaning
deep and low
head thrown back
cascading hair
over swinging nipples
a storm about to break
She bites her lip
every thrust harder than the last

That evening they pack awkwardly
two small bags sit waiting by the quay
They are leaving together
for something new
a different life
without the sea

Now, I often sail alone
but on long trips,
when the blue bitch sky stares me down
and the wind fades after sunset
in that moment
I yearn for venom from some distant horizon
to blow the salt from my tongue
and drown out the memory for good.