The air hung around, stale, malodorous, just like the deckhand milling about, looking uneasy and uncertain of what to do around the captain. The captain hung limply over the wheel, staring out into the shimmering horizon; the sea was lifeless, still, calm - and so was she.
And she hated it.
Doldrums.
The curse of every mariner. The fetid, oppressive heat, the stillness, the frustration: Isabela hated it. In fact, Isabela lived her entire life avoiding it, moving from port to port, ocean to ocean, bed to bed -
"Captain...Miss?" the man squeaked.
She hand-picked this one at Hercinia, tall, lanky, and fair. But the weeks stuck out here... the salt, sun, and work twisted him: clothes, patchy and filthy. Face drooped, haggard. Like all the rest.
Sigh. "Yes?"
"Do you want me to work on patching the sails still? Only there's no wind, and there's probably not going to be any need for it for a while?"
Sigh. I really should talk to these men before I hire them. Fools.
"What's your name, sweetheart?"
"Allan, Miss."
"Call me Isabela, Allan." she purred.
"Okay, Isabela."
He visibly relaxed a little. She stared at him, wondering. something primal in her whispered in her ear: what else he would he be good for? could he be the one to fill the wind in her sails? - no, no, no. She must have been getting desperate.
Maker's sake, I have standards.
"Now, get up and patch those sails like I asked, Allan; if we catch a breeze, I don't want us losing any of it." she sneered.
:::
Early the next morning, she looked up at the sky from the deck. From the stars, she reckoned they hadn't moved at all. She desperately craved the rocking of the sea, the caress of a leeward gale: a lover, forthright and reckless, mercurial, passionate - but she felt abandoned in this lifeless water, skin itching imperceptibly.
When you need to get anywhere, you need to take matters into your own hands.
How many boards were below decks that we kept for patching the hull?
:::
Isabela's crew sat at the portholes, boards sticking out haphazardly, looking uneasily up at her, standing on a platform with a whip, staring greedily at the men.
"All right, you blighters. Put your backs into it. Stroke! Stroke!"
The men groaned and tried to paddle as best they could.
Allan was falling behind.
"Am I going to have to punish you, Allan?"
"What? I'm rowing as hard as I can, you foul wench!"
The other men stared at him. They knew better than to question, to try and exceed their station, look, but don't touch.
She teased the handle of the whip down Allan's back, his skin tensing and twitching to the touch of the leather.
"But you haven't been rowing as hard as the other men here. I think I'm going to have to give you a lashing. A small one."
Allan whimpered.
Whack.
"And one for your lip."
Whack.
"Now, there's more where that came from. There's a good boy. Now! Stroke! Stroke!"
:::
They finally pulled into Seheron two days later, with Isabela at the wheel, wind blowing strongly at her hair and tunic.
She sighed contentedly, an itch scratched, a need - temporarily - sated.
If you need something doing right, sometimes, you have to do it yourself.