Close to the Wind

by Hawk & Quill Short Story Runner Up, Bailey Roberts

Grace looks up at the torn, barely-there wisps of what used to be sails, wondering what they would’ve looked like before; wondering what kind of flag had flown above them. Was this a vessel for merchants? Pirates? Was it a private vessel?

Luckily, the gangplank is sturdier than it looks, but the loud creaking it makes warns her not to linger too long. She doesn’t and gingerly, quickly makes her way up without thinking too much about it.

Much chillier here, she thinks. Should’ve brought a jacket.

Her friends are already running around and being idiots with no regard for their own safety whatsoever.

Well. She supposes she wouldn’t consider all of them her “friends” if she thinks too long about it. Really, it’s just Anne. Charlie’s okay… The others are annoying and loud acquaintances at best.

The ship’s pretty fucking cool though; she definitely doesn’t regret coming.

She knows the rest of them only came here to be loud and break shit while they get drunk or high (or both), but now she wishes she were alone to actually study the place. Maybe Professor Jennings would give her some sort of extra credit for it (as if she’s not already acing his class), or perhaps another push for the college to offer her a better internship.

That was how Anne managed to convince her to come out with these assholes in the first place: “It’s, like, totally old and spooky. It’s absolutely your thing, right?” If you wanna strip down my chosen major and professional direction to the bone marrow, sure, she wanted to say.

So, somewhat reluctantly, she’s here.

 She wants to chastise the boys for their antics already, but holds her tongue—they’ll mellow out soon enough, and it’s not like a majority of what’s here isn’t already damaged.

 It’s hard to tell in the late afternoon light how old the ship actually is, especially to her still untrained 21-year-old eye, but she knows it’s definitely older than the twentieth century. The fact that it’s still standing—floating—in as good of a condition as it is is kind of mind-blowing.

 “OW, JACK! You fucking dick!”

“Sorry you can’t handle whippies with a dirty old rope, Charlie. Want Jackie to kiss it better?”

“We all already know how much you like to kiss Vane’s ass, Rackham.”

“Ooo, jealous, Drake? I could do even better things to yours, but it’ll cost ya.”

“Careful, Jack. Frankie here may dress like a rich boy, but he’s broke as hell now. Daddy cut him off after he found the stash of grass in his room.”

“Fuck you, man! We all know that wasn’t mine!”

“Sure, just like that wasn’t your tongue shoving itself down Davis’ throat last weekend at Sig Ep.”

“VANE WHAT THE FU—“

 Jesus Christ. Grace rolls her eyes and walks across the deck, avoiding uncoiled rope, glass,  and broken bits of wood. Anne is somehow able to ignore the peanut gallery—from exposure or earplugs, who knows—and is standing peacefully, looking out into the foggy gloom of the bay. She turns with an excited smile.

“Gracie! Isn’t this awesome? It gives off ‘ghost ship’ vibes.”

 Grace huffs a small laugh. “Yeah, it’s pretty rad.”

 Anne wraps an arm around her and pulls her in for a half hug. Grace’s face warms despite the chill. “Told you! You think you’ll do your Scooby-Doo shit while we’re here? I’ll try to keep the guys from doing any major damage but…you know. They just like to let off steam and then chill.”

Grace looks over at who is supposed to be considered “grown men.” Frank and Charlie are holding up the ends of one of the bigger planks of wood while Jack winds up to do a horrible, untrained attempt at breaking it—something he probably saw in The Karate Kid or a Jackie Chan movie. As predicted, the board doesn’t move and howls fill the air: Jack, in pain; the other two, in laughter.

“I wonder how chill they’ll be while fighting an infection from a seemingly innocuous splinter,” she mutters. “Or a broken bone.”

Anne giggles. “Oh, they’ll be fine. Definitely been through worse, given the house they all live in. That place is a radioactive shit pile.”

“True.”

They look back out to the water and Grace sighs. “Yeah, I’d like to look around, maybe take some pictures to show Jennings. I couldn’t make out what the figurehead is so I’m gonna check that out first.”

Anne gives her one last squeeze. “Okay! Please be careful though, yeah? Don’t hesitate to yell for me.”

“‘Course. Always.”

Close To the Wind continues in the attached PDF