I
The sea was rough and wild, fighting the oars as they ploughed through the waves. The currents pulled and pushed them, and Marlene's muscles strained as she called back to the boys behind her, “Come onnnnn, though you said you’d beat me!”
She was answered by a growling splutter of curses, damning her, her mother, her bloodline- the sea was also on the list, the cold as well, and the spitting spray that stung like pinpricks, like hail in the wind.
Marlene only laughed. Sure, she hurt, arms shaking, muscles clenching, face stinging from the salts spiky hits, but that was what it meant to be at sea. That's what she did, that's why she lived, so as her fingers shivered from the strain and the cold, still she pushed, on and away from the ever fading shore.
They were all in town for the regatta, the huge fair with flags and bells, and a thousand (maybe thirty) ships of all walks of life, lined up for the fight, the race. Marlene had raced since before she could talk, strapped to her mum in a silky baby wrap, blinking in awe as the world whizzed by.
When she was seven she competed for real, crowing victorious in her tiny little dingy, until the race actually started and the fleet left her behind. Then she cried, rowing as hard as she could, but still not catching up, her little body tossed from side to side by the wake of the bigger boats. She’d finished the race, a good ten minutes after the others were out, and she’d been met by cheers and clapping hands, a poor excuse of jubilation. A lie, in Marlene's mind, she hadn't even won. So what if the next youngest was twenty? She wanted to win.
And win she would.
Every morning, up at five, she and James would run to the sea, coring and scolding like the sailors they were, and they would row and swim and run and train, ready for the war. Or the annual regatta, whatever you chose to call it. Regardless, it was something to do.
So now Marlene was rowing, pulling further and further away from the shore, the gap between her and the two boys who had challenged her growing steadily as the sea breathed and another wave passed.
‘Come on, how-?’ ‘That's inhuman!’ came their shouts. Marlene only crowed.
The wind was growing stronger, though, the waves of ripples turning steeper and more deadly. Not quite a storm, not yet at least, but something to be weary of.
“Maybe- let's go back,” she heard one boy call after a rather violent crash, “Yeah,” the other answered, then louder came : “We’re going back, the storms coming in!”
“Oh, come onnn,” Marlene grinned, “I'm having fun! It's only a little rain, what are you afraid of, getting wet?” but then they were only kids, and they were scared, and they were quite far from shore, “Go on then,” she relented “but practise those broad strokes, you’re good, but get better, then maybe you’ll have a small chance in the race-”
“Cant- here you- going back-”
“Okee,” Marlene called back cheerily, waving a hand to them, sad her words had been lost to the wind. There was quite a lot of wind, a rushing, churning huff that pulled her too and fro, like a rollercoaster by the seaside. The other boat suffered an awkward turn, then started pulling back in earnest, disappearing back to shore.
“Woohoo!” Marlene whooped into the nothingness, dispelling subtle disappointment as she rode the waves like a galloping horse. It was better alone like this, anyway, more magical, more part of the sea, but the waves were rather violent now, and the sky was turning grey. Maybe she should turn back too, back to shore- the shore- fuck, the shore was grey. All was grey.
“Jude?” she tried, calling after the others, “Joe? Fuck. Boys?!”
No joy.
No Joe or Jude either.
“Jude!” nothing,
“Ghaaaagghhhh!!!!” only wind.
“Well this is fun,” she muttered to herself.
“Hhm,” a voice hummed behind her, “I mean, a little cold, a little lonely. Could do with some party streamers. Food of some sort,” Marlene froze. “Maybe some rice.”
Gulping, she turned.