The Lake
The Edna Belle moved slowly, heavy with ore. She sat low, the lake around her black and endless. Waves rolled beneath her hull, rocking her. Wind sliced across the deck, sharp and cold. It bit into steel, into skin, into the bones of the crew.
Ernest stood at the wheel. His knuckles white, fingers numb against wood. He flexed them, felt an ache. Ahead, darkness stretched out forever.
The instruments were useless now. The radio silent, the searchlight scanning empty water. A sweep of the beam showed nothing but waves rising and falling, endless and dark.
Ernest reached for his cigarette case. His fingers trembled slightly as he lit one. The flame flickered, steadied briefly, then vanished with the snap of the lighter. He drew smoke deep into his chest, felt the warmth.
The wheelhouse was quiet, a stillness apart from the roaring wind. He listened, waiting, as another wave struck the bow. Steel groaned softly. She was strong, but she was tired. He felt it through the wheel, a quiet tremble he’d learned to recognize.
Another wave hit, and she shuddered again. The metal groaned quietly. He stood still, listening, feeling the ship beneath him. She was tired.
He took another drag, holding the smoke inside.
Ahead, a wave rose sharply, higher than the others. White foam curled at the top, the searchlight catching it briefly before the darkness swallowed it again.
He stared into the dark, calm.
The wave struck hard. Steel screamed, metal straining against the lake’s weight. He heard her fighting, and then, softly, surrendering.
Ore shifted deep inside her hull. The Edna Belle rolled hard. He felt her begin to let go.
He watched quietly, smoking. Waiting.
The lake took them softly, like always.