Sam and I probably sailed for ten minutes or so without seeing any more flares, and no sign of any other vessel in front of us.
"Should we keep going?" Sam asked.
"Just a little longer, I think."
So, we did, but this is where things took a turn. No, not a turn. A turn implies the driver is still on the road. No, things didn't take a turn—things drove off a fucking cliff.
"Woah! Slow down!" Sam yelled at me.
I slowed down significantly. "What is it?"
"Uh—I see something—not sure yet. Can't make it out."
We continued at a slow, steady speed keeping an eye out. I could see what he saw soon after he pointed it out, but I couldn't make it out. A buoy, maybe? Some scrap from a ship? We approached closer. Wait, no, it's too skinny. Except on the top. Oh, it's a—a sign? It's a sign—it's a... no.
"It's a... stop sign?" Sam muttered.
It was about 10 feet higher than the water's surface. It stood perfectly still as the waves crashed around it. The octagon was red and weathered, and covered with rust. But the white letters reading "STOP" in the middle were unmistakable. How is it not moving? It was almost as if its pole was stuck in the ocean's floor hundreds of feet below us.
"What the hell?" I said.
"I don't know man. Let's turn around."
I agreed, because I didn't like whatever vibe a fucking stop sign in the middle of the ocean was giving off. We turned, passed by the sign once more, and sailed away.
We were silent again, but not like before when we were sipping champagne—we weren't thoughtful, reflecting, or anything like that. We were scared. I could tell he was. I was. But why? It's just a stop sign. Right? Nothing spooky about that. Just weird. Just odd. Out of place.
We continued on for a while, not speaking, until I made a remark about the water.
"Wow, the water has really calmed down. These waves are baby-waves."
"Seriously," Sam confirmed. "This is the quietest the water has been in months, maybe years."
He was right. But a chill crept up my neck when I realized how quiet it really was. It wasn't just quiet, it was growing quieter by the second. Twenty minutes before, the waves were roaring and crashing into our boat, but they had weakened to small splashes. Then that had diminished into the faintest sounds of water moving, like a small creek. But then—then it was silent. There were no ocean sounds at all.
If any of you have been out on the ocean in the middle of the night, you know how dark the water is. It's basically black. The only definition of the waves comes from the moonlight, and you can faintly make out where the waves break and crash. Well, as the sound diminished, so did the waves. The choppy black water had grown stiller, and stiller, and stiller. And now, it was still. It was black. It was flat.
It looked like there was no ocean. There was no reflection from the moon or stars anymore—there was nothing beneath our boat but darkness.
Sam turned to me. He didn't have words, but his petrified expression confirmed that I wasn't going crazy. We both moved towards the side of the boat's deck and looked down—where the water should be.
Looking straight down was an odd experience. You know when you look up in the sky, and your eyes go to the furthest possible focal point they can? Well, this seemed to go beyond that point. There was nothing but darkness and I couldn't find an end to it.
sailing beyond
Start from the beginning
