The Ghosts

Sailors Paradise

The Ghosts

 

            The Uncle Tom clipped through the waves at eight knots on a downhill run.  Her spinnaker was in full bloom as she made good time across Nimbia.  It was the B crew on duty, checking lines, watching the sails for any sign of a luff, correcting their vessels course, none of whom were distracted. Conoco, the Uncle Tom’s cat, sat by the mast and watched the humans slave away for nine solid hours.  The cat was not the only observer of the sailboat, the planet itself took note of her every pitch and yawl, and imprinted the image of the beautiful yacht in her ancient and mysterious memory.

           

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            Captain Jenkins stepped out of the companionway of the Uncle Tom and felt every part of his being explode at once, and yet he remained conscience.  His atoms seemed to realign themselves, and he reformed to his astonishment in what was obviously a desert.  Saguaro, ocotillo, prickly pear, ironwood trees, purple sage, and red rocks that towered into cliffs around him astonished the captain. 

            “F**k.” He muttered.  This was all he needed, some pan-dimensional vortex had worm-holed him to Arizona and there was not a damn thing he could do about it.  He looked down at his body to make sure he was all in one piece.  A yellow Musto sailing jacket, bibs, rubber boots, a sweater, under which was a t-shirt, he was hot.  Pealing off the foul weather gear down to his track suit pants and t-shirt, he felt a little better, but there was still the question of his boots.  Rubber foul weather boots are not comfortable in hot weather, and their lack of a heal makes it difficult to walk for long distances in.  He tucked the tracksuit pant legs into the boots to prevent chaffing, and hiked up the canyon towards a grove of trees in search of the rest of the crew.

            Half an hour later Jenkins reached the top of the hill; he turned around and scanned the canyon below.  It seemed like it snaked around a cliff-face a mile away.  He turned back towards the grove and continued to make his way upward along the rocky path until he reached a clearing where the path began to decend again.  Jenkins could see a couple of houses in the distance and four head of cattle in an old-fashioned wooden corall.   Joyful of his apparent good fortune, he sprinted down to the houses and up to the front door of the first one.  He knocked on the door and waited for about five minutes before it creaked open.  An old man stood in the opening, staring out at him.

            “I hope you’ve got a good reason to be here, cos’ you’re trespassin’, boy.”  The old codger said, with a tinge of anger in his voice.

            “I’m, uh, lost.  Where is the nearest town, I need to get to a terminal.”

            “There ain’t no terminals out here, not unless ships can sail on the sand. Ah, where are you from, son?” Said the old man, who changed his tone and almost smiled.

            Jenkins realized he would be better off if he was less than truthful, so he decided he’d be as vague as possible. “Sir, I need to get to the nearest town, can you help me?’

            The old man starred at him and cocked his head and looked down towards the ground in quiet contemplation.  “Well, I am a plannin’ to go to Tucson in the morn for some a razor wire and tacks. Come on in, you can sleep here, but don’t try nothin’

 

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            In a murky three dimensional water world, four ghostly shapes materialized. They only moved for a minute, as they are crushed by the thousands of tons of water above them. In the still depths their bodies float lifelessly with zero buoyancy as they begin to decay in the fresh waters of Nimbia. They are the ghosts of Nimbia, a population of millions.