If You Love Something

This was going to be the highlight of his career. He had been chosen out of dozens of other researchers – him. It would be his name sitting gallantly on top of each bundle of scientific data and theories:

Arthur Kirkland.

It was a risky job. Three months on the open ocean, resupplying whenever necessary and he was able, to test the chemical, acidic, and salinity levels of ill-traveled areas of the ocean at different depths, and he would compare the results to the thriving (or not) aquatic life and study its effects. Of course it had been done before, seven years prior, and it wasn't anything particularly interesting or remotely explosive about the data, but in the scientific community, risk were applauded when they yielded results, and Arthur was taking a huge risk by going alone.

But this was his chance to prove himself, to have his name hold some kind of weight behind it.

He had already come far in his journey, spending a month diligently taking samples and recording clear and concise notes in a bound journal with waterproof pages and marked with a waterproof pencil. He couldn't risk losing his data over a single splash of a misguided wave.

The equipment given to him was slightly dated, but sturdy and functional. He watched the square screen of the navigational system carefully, double checking the plotted course with maps. Even the slightest mistake could leave him drifting in the endless ocean for days on dwindling supplies.

But now he was in one of the more remote parts of the Pacific, and this was his chance to find some new and interesting data, since the area hadn't been observed well or often over the past decade. The days were calm and the sky was cloudless, the winds uninterrupted and strong. They were beautiful days for sailing. With his spirits high, and hopes higher, Arthur began his work, testing the waters at several different depths, letting his measuring equipment drop as far as the rolled cables on his boat would go.

On a few of the days he swore he glimpsed dolphins following his boat, their tailfins skimming beneath the surface of the water, occasionally splashing off in the distance. It was commonly thought that the sign of dolphins alongside your ship was good luck and well-wishing from the ocean herself, and Arthur's hopes that he would return successful swelled even further.

He was twittering over the analysis that, in this area in particular, the ocean in fact was minutely more acidic than in most places. With a quick hand he made notes and hypotheses and remarked about what he remembered of the animal and plant life he'd seen in the area. And for a moment he was glad he was alone, then no one could see him be so silly over the tiniest change in data.

But before he could worry over it any more, there was a splash near his boat, and he paused, curious. Was it those dolphins again? He peered over the side of the boat and into the sun streaked water. Momentarily the back of his neck tickled and the cradle of his stomach warmed, but he shook the feeling off and returned to his work. He had more important things to do than wonder what was beneath the murky waters.

After that day, things began to go awry for Arthur. His motor would stutter and clink and he would drift along the currents for hours as he attempted to get it started once again. There was a constant humming in his ear as he worked, and he could never discern the source of it. The sound was soothing and somewhat eerie, and sometimes, as he was watching his navigation screen blink, he could feel himself staring off into space, thinking of nothing but the strange noise, until he forced himself into consciousness and found that he had drifted far off course yet again.

Perhaps he had caught himself on an undercurrent? He wondered as he puzzled over his maps and charts, figuring how best to set himself on track. The sky was beginning to overcast, and the occasional drizzle poured into the ocean in the not so far off distance. Arthur fretted, unable to make satellite contact for weather updates. This hadn't been predicted. But he was sure he could manage if he simply stayed within the hold, his radio at hand.

Those who didn't take risks weren't rewarded.

Everything around Arthur seemed to collapse when he found his journal was missing. He'd stepped into the hull for merely ten minutes to check the navigation systems and when he'd returned, his journal wasn't where he had set it last. That book, the small, leather bound journal with thick, yellowed pages – that was his career. It was his life and his work, and now it was gone. He thrashed around the deck, overturning equipment and tarps, desperate hands touching every surface he could, his mind unwilling to believe that perhaps it had gone overboard. He needed that journal.

In his turmoil he hadn't noticed the rapidly approaching storm – one that had seemed so far off in the distance was actually mighty and frightening when above him. Lightening jumped between swollen, black clouds and the ocean seeped with the feeling of wrath as the choppy waves grew and the wind howled in his ear.

Arthur tried to crawl back beneath deck, the waves tilting the small boat back and forth as more and more water splashed onto the deck, forcing Arthur to slip further and further away from his goal. His back hit the boat's railing and he clung to them with every ounce of strength he believed he possessed as the tiny boat began to capsize.

The last things Arthur Kirkland remembered were the noise of the roaring ocean in his ears, the feeling of hands on his body – or was it hands? He couldn't tell; and the bubbly sound of his name being called beneath the water's waves.