breadwinner, and baker (if I may be so bold as to extend the analogy). There are plenty of canned goods in the galley, but the supply is certainly not infinite. I suggested we ought to supplement these items with fresh fish. This part of the ocean is rich with life, after all. Gideon was not initially pleased with the idea, claiming he is an ultra-strict vegan and refuses to eat anything that casts a shadow. I told him this was no excuse for shirking his responsibility to the remaining crewmembers, myself and Plymouth specifically, but he insisted. So I’ve had to find other ways of motivating him.
“Gideon,” I say when I get hungry, “catch me some fish, or I’m going to kill your dog and eat it.” He practically jumps for his pole every time.
The same threat works for getting other tasks done as well.
“Gideon, straighten the lines, or I’ll kill your dog and eat it.” “Gideon, empty the bilge, or I’ll kill your dog and eat it.” “Gideon, bring me the binoculars...” You get the idea.
Unfortunately, this ploy may have a limited lifespan. Gideon has already succeeded in hiding almost all the knives onboard and has begun removing cleats and other metal affixtures from the deck for good measure.
From the notebook of Captain C.J. Wyle, February 4
There’s been no wind for days, as if the ocean wore itself out swallowing our comrades. I lick my lips and feel nothing against them. It’s almost a relief. I know my limitations.
I wish I could say the same for my shipmates.
Gideon paces the deck in the heat of the afternoon, Plymouth always nearby. He fiddles with ropes and cranks and looks expectantly toward the sky and then down into the water. He wants to know what we are going to do.
I keep telling him there are Quaaludes in my toiletries kit and grain alcohol in the galley and we can worry about further logistics once those are gone. He finds this answer unsatisfying.
From the notebook of Captain C.J. Wyle, February 5
At noon, Gideon called to me, saying I should come up top with him to look at the octopus. But I stayed put. I’ve seen the octopus before and what’s more, as I’ve already told Gideon, it’s not an octopus. It’s a giant squid. Octopuses don’t get that large.
Gideon believes it’s an omen, a harbinger of good luck. We first saw it the day after the storm—a shimmering, near-translucent mass passing beneath us. It was gone in an instant, but the goose bumps on my arms lingered for half an hour. Now, the squid stays longer, hovering under the Artemis, doing God knows what.
Gideon thinks the creature has come to comfort us in our time of loss. I think it’s stalking us. It senses our weakness and is biding its time.
I hear its tentacles pressing against the hull at night. Suction cups attaching and releasing, toying with its prey until the right moment. It would eat us whole in the crunchy wrapping of our fiberglass boat if it could.
From the notebook of Captain C.J. Wyle, February 7
It should be known that I am not Captain C.J. Wyle.
True, this is his journal. But I commandeered it after the storm, ripped out his notes on the trip thus far (going well, he felt), and dropped them overboard in hopes that they might meet up with their original owner.
It’s not that I don’t have notebooks of my own. I do. And pens, and a camera, and a digital voice recording device—all the necessary tools for a member of the fourth estate.
My assignment, for Popular Anarchist Quarterly, was to accompany the team from a newly formed oceanic protection agency (as they like to be called) on their maiden voyage. The organization, operating under the handle Save Our Sea Mammals, or SOSM, is in its infancy, but its organizers are hardly unknowns in the world of nautical activism. In fact, just last year, I did a profile on SOSM founder Erica Luntz for her work in various West Coast ports of call sabotaging naval icebreakers bound for the North Pole. These boats, it seems, present a terrible danger to both polar bears and their adorable prey.
The story was a hit with Popular Anarchist readers and my editors were keen for a follow-up with Luntz on her newest venture. For five weeks of embedded reporting, I was promised the cover and an eight-page spread.
Does this seem like a lot to go through for top billing in a niche magazine? Perhaps. But let me assure you, Popular Anarchist is the premier journal for radical discourse. It’s a thoughtful publication. No syndicalist screeds or dirty bomb recipes to be found in its pages. Rather, it promotes a more moderate approach for smashing the state.
So this is kind of a big break for me. Especially because—I’ll be the first to admit—I am not a very good reporter. I have a tendency to sacrifice accuracy for style. I’d rather write something that sounds good than something that’s true. I never lie. But I do embellish. For example, whenever I am writing about a group of people coming together for any purpose, I always like to say, “a crowd gathered,” no matter how many people there really were, crowd-like or not.
I hope you can see then why I might want to keep a record of these events separate from my work. It’s a matter of clarity and veracity.
From the notebook of Captain C.J. Wyle, February 8
Around noon, a crowd gathered at the stern. Someone had spotted something. Gideon, Plymouth, and I stared out at a single blemish in the otherwise unmarred blue of the stupid endless sky. The blemish appeared to be moving toward us.
“It’s a plane,” Gideon said with the real excitement of someone who really believes he’s looking at a real airplane.
He took off his bright yellow SOSM t-shirt and waved it above his head.
I looked up at the thing, silent and encased in atmosphere. Even far away it was too small to be a plane.
“It’s only a bird,” I said. “Probably an albatross.”
“No. There’s no such thing as an albatross,” Gideon countered, still whipping his shirt around. “They’re just something Disney made up for that movie about the mice who go to Australia.”
“You’re thinking of pterodactyls,” I said. “And The Land Before Time wasn’t a Disney film. It was Spielberg.”
“Pterodactyls? No, you’re thinking of mastodons. And that’s not even the right movie anyway.”
“A mastodon doesn’t fly,” I corrected. “It’s like a woolly mammoth. There’s no way that is a mastodon.”
I pointed to the object in the sky for emphasis, but it was gone.
From the notebook of Captain C.J. Wyle, February 9
This has to be the sleepiest dog on Earth. Or at least the sleepiest dog in the Pacific Ocean. I’m watching Plymouth nap in the skinny shade of a portside fender. It’s not the rabbit-chasing-dream kind of dog nap. I’d take him for dead if not for the gentle rise and fall of his rib cage.
Has there been a change in his behavior since the storm? Before, I didn’t pay him much attention beyond the passing pat on the head. Clearly, he’s upset. But is it just the weather (too hot for so much fur), or does he sense the gravity of his circumstances?
Gideon says Plymouth is part Saint Bernard. Funny, I would have guessed
