Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

the part of the boat where the name ‘Roann’ is? that’s the fo’c’s’le (sleep and eat there…work everywhere else)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise.

Prompt word:

MILK

“Keep us on this heading; I’ll relieve you at four,” not waiting for agreement, argument or even acknowledgement, the owner of  F/V Christine Denise opened the port-side wheelhouse door, stepped down to the mercury-vapor lit deck of the trawler and made his way forward to the fo’c’sle and his bunk; leaning back against the pedestal chair, the newest deckhand looked down at the compass, it’s ordinal-point disc floating in fluid and indirect red light; outside the windows, the sea was biding it’s time as the young man who paid for his intelligence with the coin of easy boredom had already fled the scene, retreating to the recent past.

 

Milt’s Tavern was everything a bar in a working port might hope to be: no windows, one clock on the wall, (a brass ship’s clock that reminded the patrons of their responsibilities eight bells at a time), and a tolerance for desperation; having stowed his seabag onboard the Christine Denise, the young man walked down the dark and aromatic docks to kill an hour with the bar’s new owner; the place was fairly empty, as most of the fleet had departed for Georges Bank earlier in the day.

The bartender smiled at the young man and the empty stool in front of his station, “Bound on the evening tide, are we, Mr. Selkirk,” the new deckhand laughed as he sat, ” You know, with that accent of yours I’m surprised you didn’t rename this place, ‘Paradise’s Cost’; folding the white bar rag, the owner smiled, ‘Better to serve in a bar than to rule in a retirement home?”

“Yeah, only got an hour, better make that my usual,” the barkeep busied himself behind and below the expanse of burnished teak, an expression of hard-earned serenity creasing the corners of his eyes: with the flourish of a stage magician, he placed on the shining wood, a glass of milk and, adjacent to it, a china saucer holding three Oreos; glancing over the white crescent of frothy-cold milk, the young man, in a mumble serving to highlight his desperate attempt to sound casual asked, “So, Keith, is Reena working tonight?”

 

The newest deckhand, standing second watch, learned one of the oldest lessons of working on the sea: no matter how dire the circumstances might seem to the waking, alert and alarmed mind, a sufficiently exhausted body is capable of taking hostage all senses except balance and so, standing at the wheel, the man jerked forward suddenly awake and alert.

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