To Where I am Directed

The salt-tinged air presses down on me and my stomach churns, the Crest bucking under my feet like a disgruntled steed; my head spinning and my temples throbbing, I sink down onto my cot and attempt to steady my mind as the cloth bunk swings to and fro with nauseating irregularity, the gasping waves thundering with all the strength of British navy. I do not know what to do.

I have spent many an hour staring out over the sterling-gray sea, watching the crashing, ice-white crests crack into spitting foam on the bow of the ship as we plow on along on the backs of the restless waves, Alexander laughing by my side. We speak of all sorts of things, him and I: of the funny way that Alex's father whistles and dances as he stews simmering pots of broiled potatoes, of reasons as to why the sky is such a bright shade of blue, of the frightening deepness of my father's bellowing voice, of the treasures buried in the deepest clutches of the ocean…..But Alexander remains curious, and no matter how I aim discourage him, he will not release his grip. He hangs onto the subject like a thirsty gull, and although I frown and turn away and tug at his strings with my ambiguous replies, he cannot seem to be stopped, not by the wind or by the driving rain or by the threat of the incoming squall, the one that so vexes Captain Sparrow.

"Your compass, Jack-what about that compass?"

And it goes on.

"Where does it come from; who was it that gave it to you?"

"Someone."

"To where does it point?"

"Somewhere important, I hope."

"Why don't you rid yourself of the thing?"

I shrug, casting my gaze out over the boiling surf, the dank sky above a murky shade of dull grey, darkened by the vast masses of gloom that swirl and gather in the farthest reaches of our vision. It is endlessly black on the horizon, and our path is awash with this aura of foreboding, this mighty gathering of malevolence. The waves roar and crash dreadfully upon the bow of the Crest with the devastating force of a thousand gales. The heated ocean howls at us, etched with a deadly silver and stretching out for as far as we can see.

Smith peers thoughtfully into the oncoming blackness with empty eyes, perched up at the pinnacle of the mainmast with the dismal sky at his back. Tanner paces doggedly about, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder and washing himself with drink after drink after drink. Skinner chuckles and peers down over the railing and into the fury of the turbulent sea, his fingers trembling as he is pelted by the ice-cold spray. Alexander shivers on the deck, huddling by the flickering light of the lit oil lamps, rubbing his fingers together in the faint glows of warmth, the terror sparking in his doe-eyes as he stares up helplessly into the strengthening uproar. The captain stands unyieldingly at the helm with his knuckles white on the wheel, his teeth gritted and his cloud of dark hair whipping in the wind as he steers us purposefully ahead. My stomach turning over, I sink dolefully into the depths of my tangled sheets, the cot rocking agitatedly beneath me and the roar of the wind and waves tearing into my ears. All I can think of is what my father hates with such an undying passion: the day of my own birth, the day of the worst tempest ever to strike the blue-green, sun-washed seas of the Caribbean.

I find myself staring miserably into the face of the black compass, my heavy eyes fixed desperately upon the little spinning needle as it trembles and strikes its finger decisively into the sliding shadows, pointing off deep into those far-off places, those uncharted places at the end of the world. To those places where I so yearn to go.

Pulling myself shakily upright, I snap the compass lid shut and drop to my feet, struggling to steady myself against the disorienting, groaning roll of the sea as I slip the little black case back inside my pocket and urgently throw my flitting gaze over my shoulder. My boots clack on the splintery wood as I treacherously ascend the gloomy stairway and struggle into the meager gray light of the rapidly darkening sky, my pattering footsteps dragging me through the billowing gusts and winding away towards the helm, where my father stands like a mast, strong and steely and towering high above my head.

"I have a heading, captain."

I find the sturdy words spilling out between my lips before I can reel them back, and I feel my bruised fingers digging stealthily into my pocket as I am pierced with my father's steely glare, as cold and striking as a speeding British bullet.

"Don't you push me now, boy," he spits, his eyes scanning me contemptuously. "Can't you see that we're headed straight into the mouth of hell? Unless ye know of the way to…to Tortuga through this goddamn mist of burden, then I suggest that you don't bother to flap your untried lips."

"Aye, I do know of it."

He eyes me, clearly unconvinced, and I firmly jab my finger out into the dreary murk that clouds the distant horizon, taking a sly peek at my compass as my father's gaze flits out to where I point. I slide the black case away and the captain turns back to face me, his face lined with his suspicion.

"There is nothing out there, boy, I cease to notice why-"

I shake my head and gesture out in another direction, in the direction of the long-lost outlying places, in the direction in which the quivering needle points. It is far-away and awash with the light that spills feebly through the mass of cloud, and I feel giddy as my rising heart soars out over the waves and rushes away with the flying wind.

"Hard to starboard! Head out yonder and make it fast, ye foolhardy sea-slugs!"

The Crest swoons and groans as she splits the waves and cracks the sea into a shower of spray. I stand helplessly at the helm, bathed in my own bewilderment, as my father yanks furiously at the wheel, that furious look of steely determination etched onto his skin. Somehow, some-way, he is complying. He is heading out, out to that sun-kissed shore that lies so wretchedly far-away. The wetness rushes about me and I can only think of one thing: that we are headed away at last. I absentmindedly finger the compass in my pocket and give the sky a faint smile.