There’s a reason why legends are legends. The depths of any cold dark encumbering environment raise the strongest most formidable foes, their daily cycle of fight for survival sharpens their senses, focuses their instincts and breeds an opportunistic demeanour. I recall the tale of my old acquaintance Skip and his encounter with the cephalopod and how he inspired me to set his face amongst my archives of portraits.
“Frøken, if I had a krone for each of you who’d salvage my story from my tired memory, I’d be a man with nought to his name, and that’s the way it be in my favour. Seeing as though you meddling folk won’t leave me be, I will tell you, only once.”
The seasoned Captain proceeded to tell me of his reckless drunken crew’s common behaviour on his ship on their long journeys across the frigid Norwegian seas. His ship had endured some rough environments and was worn, but it was strong and dependable. Strong enough to see him on several more trips so he would have the means to upgrade his vessel.
“Morten the kanon!” Skip would call his right-hand man with an admirable distaste. Morten had encouraged the Captain to take the ship further East than usual one early morning when the sky displayed a particularly oppressive character. Here they would encounter their first and last stint with the creature whose tales have been told by many.
Skip took heed to the drunken dare, they were a ship full of fools sailing into the unknown. The air grew colder and their skin tightened as the rolling waves churned against the hull. They dumped the nets and waited by the murmurs of their unsteady wintry voices.
“The beast followed the scent, thing knocked three of my crew overboard.” His story became quite vibrant quickly by his third whisky. I can’t imagine what it would be like in those waters, he didn’t mention if he’d lost those crew members to the abyssal realm, but his eyes gave him away. “Massive thing almost knocked me off too.” He told me how the crew had to cut the nets as they were acting like weights and throwing the ship further into a violent swing. The financial loss of the equipment was but a drop in the ocean compared to the potential loss of the crew. The ship swayed and rocked relentlessly. They were hanging on to any limb of the life-boat they could hold, muddled orders were flying across the deck and it was up to Skip to go headlong into safe waters. They made it eventually, fatigued, spent and shaken, but they were relieved to know they would make it to their warm hearths after the eventful fare.
He described the beast as a writhing, slippery hunter. The skin was translucent and pulsed with a green glow, well at least what he saw of the thing. It didn’t erupt from the surface, but it toyed with the charter just below them. One more surge and a sudden dive would have drawn them into a vacuumed vortex. The shadow cast by one of its limbs was a least three charters wide and it moved the waters with great force and ease.
His view of the oceans had morphed in to a world to be cautious of, one that mere fishermen do not belong or have the right to call theirs. He told me those waves are enticing but the depths are unknown and demand respect. Skip took a gulp of his spirit and tied the end of his tale in preparation for retirement. “I’ve left that time for warmer air in the hope of reclaiming some peace and quiet. Gracious to you for lending the ear, now leave me to my whisky, it may be my last, but my judgement will be forever, god natt.” The corner of his mouth turned upwards and he turned away to light his pipe and fade into the night.
** Keep your stuffing warm in cold times
