Beast of the Doldrums

It was midafternoon at the wharf, sometime in the middle of a rainy April that had allowed the sun reign over the land no more than twice since the start of the month. Far above the beach loomed the same dismal cloudy sky that had been observed throughout the week, an omen of storms yet to come. Lying in the sand below was a rum bottle, and next to it sat a slowly aging man named Patty.

The bottle had been full when he had first sat down some three hours ago, intent on drinking himself blind. Now it was empty and his vision was not yet gone, though it was blurry enough that to see him walk ten paces would be evidence enough for an onlooker to think him blind. The seat of his ragged trousers was soaked through, along with the back and sleeves of the old faded shirt hanging loose and unbuttoned around his shoulders. Had he been sober, the cold would've motivated him long before to retreat to his room in the inn. However, the wet sand and the wind were of no bother to him with the protection of his drunken stupor. The only feeling of his that the rum hadn't quelled was solely that which he had intended to vanquish, a residual terror of an old memory he had tried to drown many times before.

Though Patty was only just over thirty, it had been a great stretch of time since he had once sailed aboard a whaling ship as second mate. He had spent enough voyages at sea in those days to have the feeling of ocean spray on his face and wind in his hair permanently imprinted upon him, until their influence on his memory of sailing had been entirely diminished by a single jarring encounter on his last voyage from Ireland.

His ship, the Ibex, had just passed Morocco when the lookout spotted a blow some ways off the starboard side. The crew had its sights set on the whale, and Patty was one among the men sent out on the longboat to chase it down once the ship drew close enough. They soon came upon the animal, and the harpooner set to his task with a honed skill that's only developed through decades of experience. Within two well-placed lances the whale was killed, and the rowing crew began the strenuous task of hauling the carcass back to the ship.

They were a long ways off yet when the first tentacle came up in the distance, wrapping around the ship's mast with an evident vile determination. 'Twas as if an apparition were before them, conjured up from the bottom of a seaman's hell. More twisting suckered limbs followed, and, heave as they did, the men could do nothing but watch as within minutes the Ibex was splintered in half and dragged down into the water, leaving them suddenly alone and adrift at sea. A long time had passed since, but the memory was still ever-present in Patty's mind.

A wave washed in on the sand and flooded the space between his bare toes, followed by a second that reached his lower back and further waterlogged his pants. He sat up, narrowing his eyes in sudden acute concentration. How many years had it been since the wreck? He ran his fingers across the rough red stubble on his cheeks, landing on no conclusion despite his mental efforts. His frustration began to brew, and he pulled himself up to his feet, nearly stumbling back over before regaining whatever balance he could muster.

He turned back in the direction of the ladder leading up to the pier and began stumbling off towards it. Surely he would find someone who knew when the ship had gone down. After all, he thought, he wasn't the only one to have been aboard the lifeboat. Surely one of the other dozen men were somewhere nearby.

It was this ridiculous drunken assumption that led Patty back along the beach and to the ladder, which he miraculously managed to climb, then down the street towards The Blowhole, an old nearby tavern that was seldom empty of rough characters and retired fishermen. A group of fine-dressed men sporting round bellies and muttonchop moustaches sneered and taunted him as they passed by in a carriage, but their pretentious gestures of disdain went unseen. He was too preoccupied to notice such petty displays from strangers, nor would he have cared much had they caught his eye. At the end of the street sat the tavern, rank with the smell of alcohol and unwashed seamen. Patty trudged onward towards the building, tripping off the curb and landing in a puddle of filthy brown water as he began crossing the street. He stood back up, finding it particularly more difficult this time around, and crossed the last distance between where he stood and the door.