Creative Writing: Vents Malheureux

1.

Tonight the sea is huge and black, glittering in the moonlight. Dancing across its subtly churning surface is a large pilothouse sailboat. It is white and ten or fifteen years old—from the early ‘80s, probably—but with age only homeliness and comfort has grown to it. On both sides of the ship are gray, glossy letters that spell “Vents Malheureux,” something in French. The owner of this white Vents Malheureux stands at the bow of the boat, his eyes fixed on the dull horizon. He speaks little English; French is his native tongue. He is tall and proportionally sound. He has thick tufts of dark hair on his head, slicked back in places, but generally tousled by the ocean’s breeze, unkempt. And then the first English-speaking-man lowers himself

Kinda—” “—creepy as hell, yeah. You know, I bet the guys crazy.” Boyd is staring at the Frenchman, grinning ever so slightly. “I’d go nuts, too, if you put me on a boat for two months with some assholes who don’t even speak my language.” “Yeah. I’d talk try and talk to him, but…” The but is never explained. Both men know it, though, they know it quite well: the french’un is a little odd. He has said maybe three or five things in the four weeks on the Atlantic. It was his boat. He had, so kindly, lent it to the boys, for two months of fishing in the deep blue sea—just one condition, he went too. He had seemed so eager to sail with them, so they had agreed… And the price had been so low, it was a miracle. Boyd spits overboard. “It’d be just perfect if he went absolutely off-his-rocker out here and tried to eat us or something. Or hung us from a sail pole—maybe used us as bait for ‘is next catch—” But this thought made Jack feel uncomfortable, so he changed the subject: “Hey, are you hungry at all? I am. Thought I’d cook something up if you were too—?” “Yeah. Christ, I’ve been hungry since last damn month, it feels