The Sinking Ship
A short story by Andy Mclean
In the darkness of the early morning, a tearing, grinding screech reverberates throughout the entire ship. Despite her thousand ton bulk, she shivers like a leaf in the breeze, until the grinding stops and she floats forward, silent except for the water hissing against her bow. It is some time before she comes to a halt, and by then, she is already beginning to list to starboard, the waves thumping against her hull like a bass drum in a marching band.
You throw off the covers and rise from your bunk, your heart racing like a greyhound as your mind begins to synchronise with reality. You bundle your crying child into a warm blanket and make your way out into the passageway.
‘What’s going on?’ you ask a passing steward.
‘Iceberg!’ he yells, his face red, his eyes darting from side to side as he pushes through the startled passengers.
‘Iceberg?’ you whisper.
‘No,’ the man beside you shakes his head and grins. ‘The Captain told me it’s nothing to worry about. Just a mechanical problem.’ He takes off his glasses and casually cleans them on the edge of his Hawaiian shirt.
‘Mechanical problem?’ your tone of voice belies the little faith you put in that explanation. ‘How do you explain this?’ you ask, pointing at the deck beneath his feet, which is already leaning through fifteen degrees.
‘Look,’ the man insists, ‘if there was a problem, don’t you think the Captain would have told me? Really, I don’t think you need to overreact. Keep on the way you are and you’ll have everyone panicking and racing for the lifeboats.’
Smoke begins to seep from the door of a hatchway marked ‘Engine Room – CREW ONLY’. Several people begin to push toward the exit to the deck, their voices ringing with fresh alarm. The man with the Hawaiian shirt holds out his hands and calls for calm.
‘People! People! Don’t listen to this crazy person.’ He points at you, and several of the gathered passengers actually look as if they might be listening to him. ‘The Captain just told me that there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just a mechanical problem that they’ll have sorted out in no time.’
‘But what about the smoke?’ one man shouts.
‘And what about the sailor just before? He looked more scared than me!’ adds another.
‘Look,’ Hawaiian shirt insists, ‘who are you going to trust? The Captain of the ship, or some emotional passenger who looks like she’s had a few too many coffees?’
With growing dismay, you notice that several of the gathered passengers are turning to each other and nodding their agreement. A few of them even look your way and shake their heads condescendingly. You know you can’t walk away from this without at least trying to save some of them.
‘Please,’ you try to keep your voice calm, to project authority rather than fear. ‘I know that’s what the Captain told you, but you have to look around you and make up your own minds. The ship is rolling over. Look at the floor! We’re almost half way over now. And look at the smoke. It’s getting thicker. Pretty soon you won’t be able to breathe. You can’t deny that something is wrong. We need to get out. Now!’ The last word is almost screamed, and the desperation in your voice convinces several others to follow you.
You run for the open deck and the lifeboats that await you there. The crew have already launched two boats, but there are far too many people to fit into them, and the precarious tilt of the deck has made it impossible to lower any more.
‘Follow me!’ you shout, waving your arm to all who will acknowledge you. You run for the gangway at the stern and struggle down the metal stairs, your child clutched to your chest with one hand, the other gripping the icy steel with all the strength you can muster.
The water is frigid. The spray from the pounding waves freezes on your face and hair as soon as it touches you. You are terrified at the thought of it swallowing your child, but a quick glance above convinces you that you must act. The ship is sinking. It has rolled further onto its side, and the stern is already slipping below the dark water.
‘Women and children!’ a young sailor shouts, waving you forward. He is the one who, only a few minutes ago, ran past you in the passageway. Somehow, he appears calmer now, resigned, and the look on his face scares you more than his earlier fear.
‘There are people still inside the ship,’ you tell him as you prepare to leap into the lifeboat.
‘What?’ he is shocked. ‘I told them it was an iceberg!’
There is not any time to talk about the man with the Hawaiian shirt and his convincing denials. You have a mother of three pushing at your back, desperate to make her own way onto the last remaining boat. As you step from the ladder, a wave catches the lifeboat, slamming you onto its timber deck, your child very nearly crushed under your weight. You feel a searing pain in your wrist as a bone snaps. The agony, the movement, the fear and the stress threaten to make you sick. Your child begins to scream in pain and fear. Others now fall over you in their effort to leap to safety, as panic takes hold of them, suppressing their humanity and turning them into frightened animals.
The young sailor pulls a knife from his belt. His eyes meet yours. His jaw tightens and his face becomes hard. He reaches down and cuts the rope, freeing the lifeboat from its tether. Seconds later, you watch as the sailor, along with a dozen others, is lifted high into the air and then lost to sight, as the ship tumbles in the water, completing its capsize.
The terrified screams of those still caught within the ship are almost drowned out by the hissing and belching of trapped air as it escapes from the sinking hull. She goes under, stern first, steam lifting from the churning water, the bodies of your fellow passengers floating up to lie, still, in the oily blackness. Shocked, numbed, you stare over the side of the lifeboat, straight into the lifeless eyes of the Hawaiian-shirted man. Unable to bear the sight of him, you lift your gaze to the bow of the ship and watch the last of it slipping toward the water.
The only noise now is the desperate wailing from those still freezing to death in the icy sea, and the grey light of the full moon somehow feels even colder than the water. As the bow settles toward the waves, you glimpse the name of the once proud ship. It is beautifully fashioned from solid brass, in letters two feet tall. You watch it disappear below, one letter at a time, until there is nothing left but the name, etched forever in your memory.
SS Climate
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