REM

Deep Timber

Being the captain of a large container ship, I have been riding the waves for many years. My gray hairs are starting to show now, but not from the work I do to make a living. No, the gray hairs are from rituals that are performed on ships these days; ones that are now mandatory on ships like mine.

When I first became captain of Ivy III, I was excited. Not only was I taking on a great responsibility, I had finally made my childhood dream come true. It was challenging and stressful at first, making sure cargo was delivered on time. As I settled into my new position though, it became easier and I never looked back.

Now as I stand here on the stern of the ship smoking a cigar, I feel the chill of the ocean air entering under my coat. My nipples harden as I am unable to keep the cold air out as the cigar smoke warms my lungs. Today another one of those rituals is taking place.

We docked in the harbour a few days ago, waiting for carriers to arrive with our next cargo. While we wait though, the ship will be loaded with logs and chains in preparation for the ceremony to follow.

I stand at the stern of the ship, still enjoying my cigar as I see men prepare my ship for the sacrifice. Watching them, I wonder why people have become this way – twisted, sick.

"Captain," yells a deckhand from above. "They are ready to set out into the middle of the harbour."

Looking up, I nod to him and stick my cigar back in my mouth as he disappears. The cigar is barely half burned away, so I will have to enjoy the rest of it at a later time.

The chilling wind pushes against me as I walk along the railing toward the stairs, which lead up to the wheelhouse. I carefully grip the railing as I ascend the stairs to stow my cigar in its box once again.

"Can't a man enjoy an entire cigar for once?" I mumble as I turn to head for the main deck.

When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I see the logs laid out and chained. Piles of rope lay next to each log that will be used during the ritual. Half a dozen men will be sacrificed today, but none will be from my crew. When they join me on my ship they sign a contract, stating strictly that I will not tolerate this sort of thing. It is suicide if you ask me – ritual suicide.

They – the men who willingly participate – say it is an honour to be part of such a ceremony. It's stupid is what it is. Feeding yourself to predators of the deep so that people will think you're some sort of hero bringing them luck for the coming year.

Complete and utter bullshit. But I can't say that out loud, or even speak a word of my disagreement with my crew in case the people who orchestrate the ceremonies find me in contempt. In exchange for our exclusion from the ritual, we provide them with our ship.

Shut up. Let it happen. Don't get in the way. Then set sail for our next destination. That's always the plan anyway.

Today should be no different. The sky looks ominous, but I'm used to it. I think God hates them for what they are doing, as well as me and my crew for letting it happen under our watch. Sorry, God, not much I can do. Unless you want me in that freezing cold water, dying in vain as well.

Once I get confirmation that everything is tied down, we sail out to the middle of the harbour. We drop anchor, then wait as the robed men file out onto the deck as a "priest" – if you can even call him that after his evil actions – reads from some ancient scripture that I'm sure was written maybe five years ago and introduced as horseshit gospel.

I remain in the wheelhouse to keep an eye on things as usual. The water looks calm and the sharks arrive like clockwork. Their fins are hard to spot at first, but they surface once in a while to show their eagerness of the coming feast. I hate seeing them, but their presence is a must for the ceremony to be completed like all the other years prior.

My cigar box beckons to me, but this isn't the time to celebrate anything. I feel sick as usual, staring out in the great blue as I try not to imagine what happens beneath its dark surface.

One of my younger deckhands comes into the wheelhouse. "Captain, they request you on the deck."

Strange. Usually I am allowed to remain out of sight. I follow the young man to the deck, fearing something has gone terribly wrong and one of my men has been forced to take someone's place on a log.

Standing there in his white robe is a middle-aged man. Next to him is a little girl. He smiles as he waves for me to come closer. I reluctantly walk to both of them.

"Captain, this is Brynja, my daughter." The young father introduces me to the young girl, who looks rather calm considering her father's fate. "Please accept her as your own."

I look down at the little girl in her dress that surely must be for the ceremony. The colour of her skin indicates just how cold the wind is and I am torn between refusing his offer and covering her up in my own coat.

She looks up at me, her jaw shivering so much that I can hear her teeth chattering with her lips closed. I look toward the man and ask, "What is your name?".

"Jón." I extend my hand and we shake. As our hands release, men involved in the ceremony tie him to the log before it is hoisted into a vertical position on the deck.

The little one takes my hand and I walk away with her. We stop before ascending the stairs to the wheelhouse, taking one last look at the young man – her father. I can't begin to understand why a man would sacrifice himself, especially if he is all his daughter has left.

As the final log is raised up, each step we take upward to the wheelhouse feels like a countdown to his death. I don't wish for the young girl to see her father plunge into the icy cold depths of the harbour, and yet, she seems to have no interest in her father's final moments. They must have said their goodbyes beforehand, so I stand by the window as she grips my leg.

Cold from her body seeps into my clothing and begins to burn my skin. I take off my coat and wrap it around her, lifting her up into my captain's chair. It is turned away from what will happen below, so I continue to watch, saving her innocent eyes from her father's final moments.

The men tied to the logs look like Jesus on the cross, except there is nothing holy about the situation. These men weren't put there against their will. They volunteered to be eaten alive by the circling predators down below.

I struggle to swallow the lump that has formed in my throat, then salute the men as the logs are tipped and they plunge into the water. An hour later the logs will be pulled back onto the deck. Evidence of sharp teeth will be left and hopefully nothing else.

Waiting the entire hour, I pray they have drowned before being eaten alive. I can't imagine what it would be like, being submerged in cold, black water, unable to move, or even see a damn thing. So long as the sharks don't leave a body part dangling from the log like that one year, I think I might get some sleep tonight.

My inability to stop this madness is my sin, my shame, my burden. But as I look upon the young girl, who I have accepted as my own, I realize she will now be relying on me. Now from this day forward, I am to be her father, her protector from the deep.