21. Nick
Nick
It’s dark. Raining. Freezing.
I’m submerged in the ocean. Swells swoop me up to their towering peaks, then bring me plummeting down. Cold water smacks me in the face and lightning crackles across the sky.
I scan the endless torrent for a yellow raft, but there is no lifeboat. No crew. There is no Suoja.
I scream for Seth. Everything else is gone, but I know he’s out here and I have to get to him. And he appears. Flailing.
Drowning.
He’s so far away, but this entire hellscape is warped. I can’t touch him, can’t save him, but I can see his face so clearly as he thrashes to stay above water. As if he’s inches from me.
His eyes pinch shut, stinging from the salt water. He’s choking. Water gurgles in his throat as he begs me to save him.
“Nick.”
I paddle and paddle, lungs burning, but I can’t swim fast enough. I can’t get to him. Every time I get close, a current pulls him away.
There’s a terrible noise. Like the sound the Suoja made before she capsized, only this time it’s the scream of a human. A sound of fear and pain. He knows I won’t be able to save him. He’s terrified, and I can’t comfort him.
“Nick.”
The current has him. It’s pulling him under.
He’s going to die.
“Nick!”
I wake up gasping. Clinging to Seth while he strokes my hair, anchoring me to a place that’s safe and warm. Tucked against his bare chest.
“That’s it, Nicky.” His voice is soft. Rough with sleep. Real. Alive. “I’m right here.”
I don’t realize how tightly I’m holding on to him until my grip loosens, and it feels like something mechanical is working inside my knuckles. Prying them open.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. My throat hurts.
I hope I didn’t wake him.
“Please don’t be sorry.” He rubs my back. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”
I’ve lost count of how many times he’s said that to me this week. How many times I’ve had the same nightmare. How many times I’ve woken up shaking and sweating and clinging to him like the forces of nature are threatening to shatter the window and tear him away from me.
If he’s exhausted with me though, he doesn’t let it show. Callused hands draw soothing patterns over my skin, and when I touch him back, he leans in every time. Knowing I need reassurance that this is real. He’s alive, and he’s safe in my arms.
“I fucking hate seeing you hurt like this, baby.” His lips brush my forehead. “What can I do to make it better?”
“You are,” I tell him. It’s the truth. The only thing that does make it better is him. The home away from home he’s provided me. The distraction of helping out at the lodge and the support from his family who have welcomed me like a second son.
During the day, sometimes his smile alone is enough to make me forget. And at night, knowing he’s here right beside me is my only comfort whenever I can’t sleep.
He falls silent for a moment. “Would it help to talk to someone?”
“I don’t know.” The thought of talking to anyone except Seth is daunting, but I remember him saying he went to therapy. He’s the only frame of reference I have. “Did it help you?”
“Yeah.” Fatigued as he sounds, he continues.
“It was nice to have validation from someone who didn’t know me.
Someone who could challenge the dark thoughts.
I still think of the advice she gave me sometimes.
Still use it, even though I haven’t been in years.
I can go with you, though. If it would help. ”
I think about Seth, so self-assured and endlessly joyful now that it’s difficult to imagine him young and struggling with how to fit in. I hold him a little tighter. “Would it help you? You’ve been through more than me.”
“No I haven’t,” he argues gently. “Hypothermia sucks, yeah, but it left me with a lot of blanks. So much of what happened after we abandoned ship, I don’t even remember.
But you remember everything. You had to make the hardest fucking decision of your career, Nicky, and you made it after hours and hours of fighting that damn storm.
Doing everything in your power. I can’t imagine what it was like to carry all our lives in your hands.
Don’t think for a second that emotional damage can’t hurt worse or last longer than physical. A lot of times, it does.”
My mind is still swirling with questions and objections, but I refuse to keep him up when I can hear how tired he is. I kiss his temple. “I’ll sleep on it.”
He nods. “I love you.”
I say it back, but seconds later, he’s slipped back into unconsciousness and I’m still wide awake.
Alternating between shutting my eyes and staring up at the ceiling.
Reliving that night in flashes of black water and shivers down my spine until I resolve to ask if I can borrow the office computer tomorrow morning.
I can’t live like this. If not for my own sake, then for his.
Seth has brought nothing but happiness into my life. I want to bring happiness into his.
December 5
I had my first therapy appointment today with Dr. Allen. He’s a trauma specialist.
It feels weird to call it trauma, even though I’ve spent all this time thinking of the wreck as a traumatic thing that happened to my crew. Trauma I put them through, and therefore, how can I claim it as my own?
He asked me how I felt about journaling, and immediately, I thought back to my logbook. Seemed easy enough to write things down. I’ve been doing it my entire life.
I asked him what I should journal about.
“Anything that comes to mind,” he said. “There are no rules. Write about your day, about what you’re thinking. What you’re feeling.”
That part is pretty much the opposite of keeping a log. With a log, there’s structure. My thoughts, my feelings, have no structure at all. Even my life lacks the sort of routine I’m used to. Though, I’ve found a new one.
I’ve been staying at the Otter Trail Lodge for about three weeks now. Seth has mentioned that he’d go with me if I wanted to head back to my own place, but I can tell how much his family loves having him home. They’re shaken by the thought of almost losing him too.
Honestly, I like being around Seth’s family. It’s been a while since I’ve lived near my own, and I forgot what it was like to always have someone to talk to, or simply to exist in the same room with.
It’s louder, more chaotic here. Audrey’s kids have a mountain of energy, so of course, they gravitate toward their uncle. And in general, Seth’s whole family are the kind of people who show their love through bickering and then laughing about it.
There’s never a dull moment, and there’s always something to do. Whether it’s chopping wood, making repairs, or helping Seth’s mom out in the kitchen.
It’s nice to get out of my head for a while. To have something to take my mind off the… trauma.
Maybe if I write that word enough, it won’t feel quite so wrong anymore.
Trauma.
That’s what this feeling is.
Nick
December 12
I’m still thinking about the question that came up during therapy today.
“Your first mate, your partner. Seth. He’s also been in charge of steering? Decision-making?”
“Yes.”
“What would you say to him if he had been the one in charge? How would you feel if he had made the same calls you did? Would you blame him for what happened?”
I told him no. Immediately. Resoundingly.
“And why not?”
It was weird, arguing against my own mind.
But that’s exactly what I had to do if I put Seth in my place.
Of course Seth couldn’t know a storm was coming our way, or how bad it would get.
Of course there was nowhere else he could’ve taken us on such short notice that would’ve protected from the weather.
Of course he couldn’t control the rapid icing.
So why should I have been able to?
The logic is right there, I can see it. I can feel it. But it’s hard to hold onto it for any length of time because trauma is stronger than logic. It’s a thirty-foot wave battering an aluminum skiff.
Even now, as I wait for Seth to get out of the shower, my mind starts arguing back.
Maybe I wouldn’t blame him if he was in charge because I would never blame him for anything.
I can hear the water splatter on the tile when he wipes it off his face.
The steam creeping under the crack in the door smells like him.
Pine and salt—clean, woodsy Alaskan air.
Every once in a while, he lets out a deep breath that reminds me of the one he makes when our clothes are gone and his body presses fully against mine for the first time.
The way I love him is stronger than logic, too. Stronger than trauma, I imagine. Because it shines through.
Nick
December 18
I made paella with Seth’s mom today.
Helping Irene out in the kitchen is one of the most relaxing tasks around here. You wouldn’t think so, with how much of a stickler she is, but maybe that’s why. My brain understands procedure, and cooking is familiar.
Irene knows exactly how she wants things done, and it’s way different than the way I’ve ever done them.
I learned to cook as efficiently as possible, with as few ingredients as possible, dirtying as few dishes as possible.
She’s got the biggest collection of cookbooks I’ve ever seen.
Every type of cuisine you could possibly imagine, and she’s studied them all like she’s getting ready to write her thesis on international cooking.
For the ingredients that can’t be found around here, there’s even little handwritten notes about substitutions she’s tried and whether they’ve tasted good or not.
She makes nearly everything from scratch.
Including the seafood stock we used to cook the rice—and damn, was it delicious.
Fresh crab shells and fish trimmings from local fishermen, paired with dry white wine and scraps of vegetables and herbs she keeps frozen from her spring gardening.
I would have drank it from a mug on its own.
So naturally, her paella was the best I ever had. I told her so too.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said. “I’ve been perfecting my paella for the last ten years. It’s one of Seth’s favorites. I always thought I’d make it for his wedding someday.”