Almost Alive (A Month) • Age of Sail

The sea is rough today. It forces Legacy to buck and twist over the swells. The bowsprit jabs into the crest of the wave, kicking ice cold spray from the Atlantic up over the fo’c’sle. The skies are brooding and dark, completely overcast with a murky layer of Stratus Fractus indicating incoming bad weather. 

Perfect. 

Owen never liked sailing in calm conditions. Mirror flat seas feel almost unnatural and it set him on edge. He doesn’t like sitting on some becalmed glass bay waiting for something to happen. He likes to feel movement of the ship, to feel like he’s actually sailing. He feels most alive when it’s rough like this. 

That said, it took Owen a good month to settle into the harsh, brutal reality Naval life. A month to learn how to walk in a straight line with a moderate swell running. A month to learn it’s probably best not to get too attached to his shipmates. It’s hard but for the best. 

Still, Owen can’t help feel the stabs of survivor’s guilt nagging at him as prayers are read and the body dropped into the sea. He has to work at holding back a sudden wave of sadness for an able seaman he never knew. 

It takes Owen even longer to mourn the loss of his right arm and to learn how to work without it. The surgeon cut it off just above his elbow, a festering pistol shot received in close action 3 weeks after he was made Acting Lieutenant cause for the amputation. He knows he’s lucky to of survived the surgery and subsequent recovery without infection but he can’t help feel bitter about it. 

He can still duel with a sword and for that Owen is grateful, he’s come to enjoy the regular practice sessions though he has to learn to alter his positions to account for his balance being thrown off by the missing limb. 

He does have to learn how to write left-handed. It’s hard at first, the shakiness of his attempted copperplate frustrating him into giving up after a few lines in his journal but once he switches to a simpler cursive it gets easier. Owen likes to write and sees penmanship as an art by it’s self. He takes pride in his fancy copperplate in particular; in his journal there are odd pages just dedicated to practicing the script where he’s working on keeping the loops and flourishes consistent and making he’s using just the right amount of pen pressure on the strokes. 

Writing is one place he can be completely honest and freely express his emotions with little difficulty and he does miss it in those first few months. Owen’s hand gets steadier over time (though not as fast as he’d like) so when he tries copperplate again, it’s clear he’s out of practice. It’s not as elegant as his older log entries but it’s a start.

Owen struggles most with having to ask for help to do menial everyday tasks because it stings. It stings a lot. Owen does what he can alone but he can’t help the bright red flush of shame burning across his face when he asks for help. He tries not to think about how far down that flush goes. 

Archie will help, whilst they still bicker for sport they’ve largely worked out most of their differences. If caught in a mood Archie can be antagonistic over it, making Owen feel useless and inept. Sandy at least seems to understand what Owen wants without making a song and dance over it and he tries hard not to allow that to become a crutch and become too reliant on him to help. One day Sandy might not be there.

At least the action responsible for Owen’s amputation finally sees his promotion to Lieutenant confirmed. It’s a bittersweet moment, Owen knows it’s highly unlikely he’ll get another promotion based on merit alone. There’s also a good chance he’ll get killed in action long before he’s considered worthy of being promoted to Commander, despite his blue blood making him of interest to the Service.