I reach the mid-decks, and the rocking’s a lot less pronounced. I’m just passing a porthole when movement draws my attention out in the rain. A flash of color moving down the deck towards the bow. Someone’s out there in this weather? I squint, trying to make out the shape. There is someone out there, a faint shadow weaving unsteadily away, but it looks like a dress fluttering in the wind, and... a walker? Mabel? Where’s Joyce?
Panic crushes what’s left of my seasickness. I need to help her, or whoever that is. There’s no way she’s getting back on her own, and I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to her because I didn’t act fast enough. Well, it’s not going to happen. I’m going out there.
I brace against the heavy door, pushing it open with effort. I can barely do it when the weather’s good. With the wind against me, I almost don’t manage. How did Mabel get out there? It doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t matter right now. Stepping out into the driving rain, I pull up the hood on my sweatshirt, only to have it ripped right back off by the wind. After a couple tries, I give up. Everything’s soaked already, anyway.
Holding on to anything I can find, I make my way towards the staggering figure, but it’s moving too fast. It’s the wind, blowing her away. Her wheels must be sliding on the wet deck. Jesus. I try to move faster without losing control myself. Bending low, I half run along the rail.
She seems impossibly far away.
Shit, shit, shit.
I’ll have to risk it. For a moment, I squeeze my eyes shut and draw a deep breath, then I let go, charging after her while the deck tips scarily beneath me. Whenever I can, I grab onto something to steady myself, but even then I almost go down a couple of times.
I’m getting closer, but as if in slow motion, I watch her finally lose control and fall. The metallic crash of her walker is barely audible through the storm. Steeling myself, I rush forward as quickly as I can, adrenaline giving me strength.
I pray I’ll be able to get her back on her feet.
It’s only when I’m almost there that I realize what an idiot I am. Collapsed on the deck is a serving cart with a ripped parasol, knocked over by the wind, its wheels still spinning. I grab the slippery railing, half laughing, half sobbing. I just put my life in danger for a rogue piece of deck equipment. My only consolation is that nobody saw me, because now that I’m closer, it doesn’t look anything like a person.
The ship crests a wave and crashes down towards the next one, and only my death grip on the railing keeps me from going on my face. Shit, I might be in trouble. Now I’m the crazy person out in the storm, and the door isn’t even visible from this far forwards. I need to get inside before I’m launched overboard.
I give the cart a frustrated glare before I start the long journey back. God, I feel stupid. I think the storm agrees with me. With the wind in my face, it seems even angrier than it was on the way out, and my knuckles whiten on the rail while I try to keep my footing.
Hand over hand, I pull myself along, keeping my eyes firmly on the shadowy outline of the center of the ship. I got out here. I can get back. Doing my best to convince myself while the wind and rain tear at my face and the crashing of the sea roars in my ears, I drag myself closer, step by step.
Either the storm is getting worse, or my arms are getting tired. Every wave that spills over the railings puts me that much closer to losing my footing and going down. I’m so wet and cold that it hurts, and my grip is getting weaker. I grit my teeth in determination, but part of me just wants to sit down and give up.
I can do this.
Someone once told me that every seventh wave is bigger when it washes up on shore. As a kid, I used to count them on the beach, running up the sand every time I got to seven, expecting it to come rushing further than the ones before. Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn’t, but maybe I was counting them wrong. It must be a seventh wave that suddenly washes over the ship, tearing my feet out from under me and ripping my grip loose from the railing.
I scream and my mouth fills with water. Scrambling for anything to hold on to, I get my fingers around the legs of one of the deck-mounted tables, but not without banging my forearm against one of the others. That’s going to bruise in the morning, but bruises heal. Getting washed off the side of the ship? Much worse. Crawling under the table, I wrap both of my arms around the leg and cling to it for dear life. I’d hoped I’d get a little cover, but the rain’s going straight sideways. Doesn’t matter. There’s no part of me left that isn’t completely drenched.
Now what? I’m close enough that I can almost see the door, but new waves rush by, and I don’t think I can manage to actually walk the rest of the way. So near, and yet too far. I don’t know what to do, so I cry for help. No one’s going to hear me, but I have to try.