Chapter 1
Slack Jaw is still a work in progress, but I thought I’d share a little, unedited piece of it. Here is a first look at the first chapter.
With an engagement ring in her pocket and a question on her mind, Samantha ignored the weather warnings and sailed towards the storm. Weeping wind stretched the canvas, heralding Storm Peggy, though its full attention still focused out over the Atlantic Ocean. Morning crept in, but the only clear sign night had passed was the time on her watch. Weak light seeped through thick and clotted clouds. Pale, threadbare violet beams silhouetted the Irish coastline.
Samantha practised her marriage proposal lunge so often that she wondered if Aoife would notice the muscle tone difference in her legs. I shouldn’t have taken this job. Otherwise, We’d be snuggled up right now. Though she admitted, it was a delight to skirt the hem of such a maelstrom in a boat that would take her a lifetime of saving to get a loan for.
Since setting out from Liverpool, she used the shelter of Ireland’s east coast for most of the journey. She considered the Irish Sea rough until exposed to the pure force and indifferent violence of the Atlantic. Travelling solo, there was no relief until she landed on the island of Inis Mor. The weather deteriorated; harsh winds threatened gale forces that whipped up shifting valleys and whistled above the mountainous rising swell. By nightfall, the ocean would dance. If she did not hurry, she would end up spending Christmas in a Galway hostel with an unasked question and a pissed off girlfriend. Better a pissed off fiancé. Unless she says no.
Lashing rain rolled off her waterproof gear. Falling in such a cottony veil that she almost missed the grey hull of a much larger vessel off the shore near a small Cork village. Samantha did not hold with omens, ill or otherwise, but the drifting wreck made her smile at the brief consideration she gave them. She altered course, tacking to a safe distance from the cliffs and doomed vessel. When she let her sail slacken; she squinted into the rain.
No light came from any part of the ship. No horn blared to warn her off and attempts to hail it over the radio were met with silence. She doubted there was a soul onboard, which seemed natural given its condition, but what unsettled her was that there was no ghost of the vessel on any of her instruments. It drifted on the whim of the tide while the wind was like a great inhalation from the cliffs, drawing the ship closer to the biting rock. Waves crashed side on against the crippled ship, devoured by salty spray blossoms, but it weathered the battering, while limping closer to land like a soul lost at sea, swimming towards a mirage, ignorant of the hidden nettle in the bouquet.
Any identifying markings were worn away or grime covered. No flags flew from the strange antennae to indicate its origin. Samantha saw no foot holds to climb and unless she was mistaken, cameras watched every inch of the ship's deck, supporting her theory that it came from pirate-infested waters. High railings hid everything other than the antenna and pilot’s deck. The central mast carried more equipment than she had ever seen on anything smaller than a navy vessel. How long have you wandered alone? How far have you travelled? Stories of drifting ships filled with colonies of cannibal rats came to mind and culled her curiosity. She shuddered. Keep your secrets.
She had to turn the radio up full and hold the headset beneath her hood to hear the coast guard. She gave her coordinates and described the scene.
“Can you reach anybody onboard?”
“It’s derelict. Must’ve been drifting for months, maybe years. Unless you’ve something bigger to tow it with, there’s nothing you can do to stop it wrecking,” Samantha said.
“We’ll get eyes on it. Thanks for the call. What are you doing so close to the cliffs in this?”
“I’m just passing by.”
“You’d better find shelter. This storm’s fixing to be nasty, I’ve just put my dinner in the oven and don’t want to have to fish you out in an hour. We will if we have to, just won’t be happy about it. Head for Cobh if you can.”
“Don’t worry, I’m bound for a harbour now.” She left out that she was going to pass several serviceable ones before reaching her destination.
“Safe travels.”
Samantha took photographs before her sail snapped like her conscience, bringing her back to the task at hand.
Black rocks, ominous incisors at the base of the cliff, punctured the churning foam each time the waves rolled back. Despite the distance Samantha put between the wreck and her, she still winced at the high pitched grating and tearing of metal when it struck land. It made the nerves in her teeth shiver. With every wave, the ship disappeared behind a curtain of broken white water, pushed further onto the shelf. She was about to record the scene, but thought better of posting it online. Her client might wonder why she was out in such horrendous conditions. Once this made the news, the tiny fishing village nearby would be the talk of the country.
The ship would end up a permanent fixture of the coastline, used by locals to mark their strolls, until the ocean devoured it. What’s a coastline without a few wrecks dotted along it? If enough people die, it could even become a tourist attraction.
During the journey, her mind drifted back to the ship as a reminder of what could happen should her attention falter. Though she would rather pass by the islands, sailing into the heart of the storm with her question unasked. That way, there was still half a chance the answer would be yes.
She lived for these fleeting moments, alone on the water, when belief in her abilities only just surpassed the prospect of death, should she fail in any number of tasks. The rush and adrenaline was an addiction. But today she was on the verge of panic. Her heart and mind racing with the possibilities that lay in a one-word answer. It sickened her to think that she might be sailing towards her own wreck.