This piece is inspired by the Walt Whitman poem of the same name.
“O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting-”
“Hush, will you? We’re not there yet.”
“But we’re practically there! Another couple of days-”
“You never know what the sea will throw at you.”
The young sailor, jovial spirits dampened significantly by his Captain’s gruff response, fell silent. He turned his gaze to the ocean. The water was a cool murky blue. Small waves capped with white foam, more foot-high ripples than proper waves, lapped at the side of the ship as it cut through the water like a hot knife through butter. At this pace, the sailor thought, we surely must arrive soon.
The deck was bathed in warm sunlight. The sailor sighed and stretched out to lie on his back, squinting into the sun. There was not a cloud in the sky. A couple of gulls soared high above the ship, riding the wind.
Nightfall was drawing nearer as the sailor awoke from his nap. God had taken his time painting the sky that evening. It was a bacchanalia of hues, from orange to yellow to red and all in between. The sailor stayed propped up on one elbow, unmoving, as minutes went by and the sun’s display slowly dampened as it dipped under the horizon.
Dark clouds gathered opposite the dying sun.
No gulls soared now, losing control to the picking-up wind. What color the sky had was lost as the world was plunged into gray and black. The foot-tall waves tripled in height, then grew more, and more, and more. They violently jostled and rocked the ship. The wind howled. Rain pelted down onto the deck. Wooden barrels and crates, left untethered in the crew’s hastiness to take down the sails and secure themselves, flew off the ship. The crewmen clung onto beams and boughs as the ship kicked and dipped and bobbed, doing everything in its power to throw them off. The Captain remained at the helm, shouting orders at the crewmen. He had not yet tethered himself to the deck. The sailor, now hours removed from his sleep, clung to the railing and staggered towards the helm of the boat. At that moment the wind, already whistling, picked up its gale. The waves roared up to mountainous heights, the Sea threw up a guttural roar, the ship gave a mighty lurch. The captain was thrown backwards and hit the deck with a loud and unpleasant crack.
And then there was color.
He lay, defeated, bathed in color.
Blood, rose-red, pooled next to him.
The Sea retreated.
The sailor darted up to the helm where the fallen captain lay. He cradled the bloodied body in his arms and crouched there, still, as the ship awoke, those left with their lives thanking whatever god had spared them. Auburn and new sunlight pierced the clouds. A symphony of bells tolling carried over the calm waters. Gradually, the spires and rooftops of the port-town came into view. Banners and flags of all colors could be seen. This color, thought the sailor, is for you.
The ship drew nearer and nearer to port. Joyous faces of the crowd could be made out, all of their eyes on the homecoming ship. Their faces quickly shifted from excitement to dismay as the defeated ship limped into port. Jovial chattering was replaced by hushed and worried whispers.
The bells, tolling throughout the ship’s docking, gradually meshed into the chime of a small digital clock. It was past time to leave. The discolored wood of the port and crowds of onlookers blended into a dull white wall. Doctors walked hurriedly by a chair where a small boy was sitting, holding a notebook.
The sailor raised his pen.
“My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.”
A tear fell from his cheek. An ocean traversed within his pages. He snapped the notebook shut and buried his head in his hands.