I remember waking up in the middle of the night and wondering why my legs were wet, but I don’t remember closing the roof hatch. My cabin was a little wider than shoulder width, and the bed left my feet dangling over the edge. The roof hung looming about two feet above my head. My eyes opened slowly, and with the first glimpse of sunlight came the usual splitting headache.
When I finally did get up, I put the kettle on and poured some coffee into my French press. I splashed my face with some fresh water from the sink and took a look at the seas around me. It was at that moment that I found some very odd things to be true.
Not only was my mooring line now half of what it was when I fell asleep, but the island which I had sailed to yesterday had disappeared. I closed the hatches in the cabin and found some towels to soak up the water dripping from the radio. The usual red “on” light was no longer glowing, despite the contradiction made by the position of the switch. Under the radio, three smeared sheets of paper rested under a rock in the exact position I had left my charts last night. I tried to dry them, but soon realized that they were now useless. I went back over to the stove and poured myself a cup of coffee.
After shuffling through last nights empty bottles, I made my way to the cockpit. I stood at the helm, and positioned my bow directly into the sunrise. My compass read fifteen degrees west. I knocked on the glass, thinking it was stuck, but soon realized that the insides were void of all liquid.
With a rock steady hand, I lifted the cup to my lips and took a sip. “Hm,” I thought to myself, “this coffee is fucking amazing.”
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