II.

Wet. How else can one describe the feeling of being drenched to the marrow of one’s bones? I suppose that you could say I was soaked to the skin, or drowned. Possibly, even, you might say I had been saturated with water in the same way burgers from Fast Food restaurants are flooded with grease, fat and who knows what other forms of cholesterol that lurk within such things.

However you decide to call it, for me, being wet was something I actually enjoyed. I was thrilled with every opportunity given to dive into any amount of water large enough to fit my small frame. As a young child I’d learnt to swim quite confidently both with and without the aid of armband or floatation device.

Father and I often went to sea in our yacht, the Lusankya. Father was very proud of himself for coming up with an original name, after scuttling my idea of Chimaera. He’d said he’d seen that in a book he’d been reading and thus, after reading another of his adored science-fiction novels, he had christened the boat. Later on that evening I’d quietly snuck over to where Father kept his books at night and stole a brief look into the very story he’d been pouring over much earlier. Just as I thought, he’d either subconsciously retained the name, or decided to use it despite full knowledge of his earlier stand on originality.

This little detour into my past isn’t as pointless as you’re probably thinking it is, for the story behind the name of the yacht is both vital to what I’m about to tell you, and also possibly the most humourous part of my life to date.

You see, on the day whose events I’m about to recall, Father and I were sailing forth on the briny waves of the Atlantic ocean, taking turns in manning the wheel. The breeze was prone to kicking up randomly, and more than a dozen times a gust would have tipped us on our tail had Father not swung the sail in time. We’d soared across the wave crests countless times before, and were secure about our skills and Lusankya herself. So far she’d lived up to her namesake splendidly, though thankfully there was no prison within her cabin.

Until that final, fateful squall, Father and I were proud, confident and happy with each other – and our little maiden of the sea. “I’ll never forget,” may be a cliché, but the reality of it is undeniable. Nothing about that moment will ever be washed from my mind, nor would I wish it away from my soul.

The sail that had proven calm and docile in Father’s gentle hold had been moved as if punched by some giant’s hand. The wooden pole had swung round so sharply my Father could not have known it had even strayed. I watched in open horror with the knowledge that I had lost my guiding star in this life forever. The wave that broke his fall also broke his body and my heart.

By the time I was able to slow the yacht, Father had sunk from sight, and so too did all joy from my life.