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Thanks to: Much appreciation goes to the scrupulous Kamahl Nunz Vaz, my editor and the astute advice of Daniel Williams.
Here we are. On this sinking ship. Struck by the righteous rage of the storm, we now see the arrogance and pride that brought us here. Our fatal blunder threatens to swallow us. That deep watery grave holds our just reward: profound oblivion. Like a bell the open seas, once our pleasure: a background to our merrymaking has tolled on the eleventh hour.
We set out from port with all the best intentions and all the finest technology. They proclaimed the HMS Our World ‘The Unsinkable.’ The frightening consequence of our sin is slowly sinking in. Too late, we see what brought us here.
Why the operator turned off the radio no one knows. It would have warned us of the waves that so easily crippled us. Desperate warnings were answered only by the unceasing sound of static from empty airwaves and vacant men. We could blame the radio operator. We could condemn countless others but it is all pointless. Their warnings would have fallen on deaf ears; such was the assurance we had placed in our own strength. Our vanity made us think we were invincible - we were for a time, but born myopic, we were made for misfortune. Here we are.
There is hope now. HMS Salvation anchored beside us and was taking people onboard. We rushed to see if we could gain passage on this vessel, far superior to our own. The Captain himself was there, offering his helping hand and delivering direction to the effort. Such was the fervour and passion with which he lent himself to the task that we found ourselves reaching out to him. We saw many with arms extended: reaching out to grasp those hands pulling repentant refugees away.
To our amazement we saw a crowd standing back, arms held stiffly to their sides and inside of their heavy coats. They stood there static, snarling at the happy hope of those who called out for help. We cried to the Captain also and raised our hands to be grasped by his. “Let us on,” we cried, for we had considered the terror of imminent death beyond the water’s edge. The deep was calling for our lives, but we stretched out to escape the consequences we so richly deserved. We found ourselves reaching for the upward calling of this ship, HMS Salvation.
The Captain stretched out to us, but stopped and pulled away before we could grasp him. He spoke to us across the distance. “You cannot come here,” he shouted. Our hearts withered within us, to be found unworthy of the only means of escape. “Unless…” Our hearts leaped again to hear that blessed word. Unless. There was still a chance.
Anything: we would do anything at all. “Unless you are an officer in the Royal Navy.” Alas, we were not. Again our hearts melted in despair. It was as if the high seas rolled and reeled beneath our hope like this fragile ship riding a storm. The naval life, we had thought, was not for us.
The HMS Our World was a passenger ship. We had boarded her with the intention of enjoying a pleasant voyage. For a while we were fine. Trouble was the last thing expected, though traditionally that is most often the case. Young and old alike, we all rejoiced to be free from restraint; we revelled in luxury, floating on peril as if it were air. We were free, or so we thought. We perceived the services a bore: something to avoid at all costs, and never a career option! How fast the turning of our paradigm was when we found our lives depended upon it. And there was our calamity. We had sown - we now reap.
“How much will passage cost?” we yelled, desperate for some way aboard. The captain held out his hands to pull back the sleeves of his jacket. What we saw changed us forever. He revealed the wounds in his hands: scarred tissue and callused skin, marks of a lifetime of pain and turmoil. He spoke these words into the centre of our being.
“How much did it cost me?” Solemnity washed over us as he asked his question. No answer was required. We knew the price he had paid to be here this day. He had won the right to Captain the HMS Salvation with his life. A price not one of us now able to pay.
“There is a one way,” he said. “Become officers in my navy. Join the great ranks of men and women, like those who have sailed before you, and swear an oath to become one of them.”
We wondered. Could it be that easy? To save our lives all we need do is repeat an oath? How long must we join for? we thought. In our minds we asked ourselves, was the tour of duty five years or ten? What station can we fill? Can we attain a rank of honour and esteem? As is he heard our thoughts he answered.
“You must, as I have done, be willing to give your whole life.”
“Why?” we cried. “How can you ask this much?”
He explained. “This ship is the only hope of the HMS Our World and I cannot risk rebellion. It was rebellion that led your ship astray and pride that assured it a place at the bottom of the sea. I cannot allow the same to overshadow Salvation. Unless you take the oath, there is no place for you on my ship.”
We stood there in awe of the authority and stature of the Captain. In his voice we heard the desperation of his call to all those who stood by and watched idly. We marvelled at them. There was no other way to gain passage aboard the HMS Salvation and no alternative besides. Still they stood back. Some sneered at those climbing aboard. Some refused to come close for the reproach it had become. Some even spat at the officers aboard the Salvation. Their anger had clouded their judgement, making wise mean ignorant fools and small men too large for their waterlogged boots.
As we watched we also saw the supreme wisdom and goodness of the Captain, who did not hold back his gift from anyone, but offered it to all who would accept. We ourselves were standing there, watching in wonder the events unfolding before our eyes. Turmoil engulfed us. Motion everywhere from despairing, confused people swirled about and we marvelled at the magnitude of the moment, here, on this sinking ship.
It did not take us long for us to think it through. Though the price was high, the price of the alternative was higher. There we swore the oath and pledged our lives to the service of His Majesty’s Navy and placed ourselves under the command of the Captain. There we received from his a life jacket with the emblem of the Royal Navy and a whitewashed shield divided by a red cross. But then he did something we did not expect.
He gave us a commission in the Royal Navy and bid us stay abroad the HMS Our World to tell those who do not know of the HMS Salvation. The captain took his ship, promising he would be back in time, before vessel sink beneath the waves. He promised that all who accepted the authority of the Royal Navy and joined their ranks by swearing the oath would be accepted aboard the HMS Salvation. We trust in our Captain will all that is within us: with the same conviction and confidence he himself demonstrated when imploring the stiff-necked bystanders aboard. That is why we tell this take with such fervency: because we are on a sinking ship. But here is hope now. Our job is to gather recruits while he’s gone.
Here we are.
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