Water Rising

In front of our town university there was a strip of gardens where I liked to sit and read in the summer. The strip was mostly populated by oaks that had grown there for hundreds of years. Usually this means there are tall, regal trees; however, in the 18th century, the duke of those parts had ordered the tall, regal ones to be cut down and built ships out of them (which he subsequently lost while demonstrating his naval might). The oaks that were left to grow were the gnarly, bent ones, their demeanor less regal and more senile, somewhat decrepit, too, the kind that eyed you from under their green hoods with their one good eye. I rather thought it gave them character, and usually occupied the shade of the gnarliest, most crooked of them, except in those rare cases that someone had taken it before me, in which case I sat in the sun (being a sore loser), and consoled myself by making faces in the usurper's direction while they weren't looking. On this particular day I was sitting in the shadow of that oak, reading the Theory of Poker, dreaming of getting rich without all the effort.

As it is an established purpose of river banks to house all the modern art that's ugly enough for people not to want to live next to it, but made by someone famous enough that the city doesn't want to hurt their feelings by throwing it away, an artistic explosion of chrome had been diplomatically shoved in the middle of the cobbled plaza on the other side. Normally I tried to avoid looking at it as much as I could, but I happened to glance up from my book at it then and couldn't help doing a double take, as my attention was drawn by the river surface, which looked to be ruminating on the statue's concrete pedestal.

There were two old ladies sitting on a bench, agreeing furiously about something, and a couple with a small child having a picnic. None of them had noted this new development, so I reflexively acted in the manner of a child who realizes that he has left the bathroom faucet open with the plug in five or so minutes ago: I quickly and covertly removed myself from the area. The nearest exit was the university front entrance, which I promptly made use of.

Luckily, I was wearing jeans, a pac-man T-shirt and (as of recent events) a vaguely confused expression, and therefore blended into the crowd perfectly. I didn't have a fully outlined plan yet, at that point, but generally I intended on passing through doors as much as I could, for the symbolic assurance of advancement as much as anything. Many of them were locked (which could also have been interpreted symbolically, for me), but after encountering one or two dead ends I found my way into the university's courtyard.

Judging by the commotion, the rest of the the riverside was waking up and smelling the coffee, or the unexpected high tide, anyway. The university, having been established in an old cotton factory, had a twenty-foot brick wall going around the side of the courtyard that faced the street. From the gate I could see people fleeing towards higher ground. I eyed my surroundings: the highest point in my vicinity looked to be the tall chimney, so I headed for the maintenance ladder.

It was one of those ladders they've installed a steel safety frame around, so that if you lose your grip and fall, you have a chance to hit your head immediately, without needing to wait through the tedious tumble to the asphalt. I stopped for a breather about two thirds of the way up and leaned against the frame, looking at the pandemonium below. The water had overtaken about one half of my reading tree, as it lay quite low on the gentle slope of the garden strip. I was on the wrong side of the building to see for sure, but it seemed like the river was enrolling in the university. In the distance, the statue was already immersed, and the heavy doors of the church by the bridge were completely underwater as well. I continued my climb.

The top of the chimney had a nominal railing that offered, it seemed, mostly emotional support for the acrophobic. Nevertheless I tried not to look down too much, at least until I had anchored myself to something solid. Edging along, I accidentally kicked a pigeon's nest into the chimney; the resident pigeon, who'd been standing around on the railing, made offended noises, then appreciated me on the shoulder.

Soon the water was reaching the third-floor windows of the university. Students and other fugitive citizens were starting to flood onto the tin roof. A group survival effort in one of the classrooms shattered a window, then found to its dismay that tables do not float and as such make poor rafts. Meanwhile, as the water overtook the lower buildings, the people atop them had to crowd in tighter and tighter, until the people closest to the edge began to domino in. An upside-down rubber raft floated in from somewhere in the near suburbs. What had been a river was swiftly becoming a sea. When it reached the university roof, most of the others were long submerged, and some of the more athletic people were swimming along, either towards some higher point or just to stay afloat. Bit by bit I watched the university buildings get overtaken.

In a little while more, the only spots of high ground left were my chimney, another one in the far distance, and the church tower. The water inched closer to me with more and more confidence, now fifteen feet away, now ten. By now there wasn't a soul in sight. I suddenly felt quite alone.

At the last moment before the water reached the chimney's edge, I realized the startling importance of gripping on to the railing. I did, then, and had to hold on with all my might as the chimney submerged and the water gushed in to fill the black void of the chimney, bringing up decades of collected grime, muck and appreciation. I had no other option at that point than to surrender myself to the water's will, so I lay myself spreadeagled and let the current float me off.

I silently panicked, my left hand twitching, my right gripping the Theory of Poker like a talisman, and floated for a minute or two before I bonked into something. I steered myself sideways to it, then bonked it again by accident, so that it floated a bit further away. It was the rubber raft from before; I made for it in awkward movements. I grabbed a handle on the side with my left hand and dragged myself up onto the upended thing. It took a bit of effort to balance on it, but I managed it, and carefully lay myself on my back, so as not to upset it again.

It was a beautiful day, with the sun shining down from a cloudless sky, but it did nothing to improve my mood. What the sun did do was make me drowsy, and the gentle rocking of the raft lulled me to sleep.

When I awoke the sky was tinted slightly red. My head hurt tremendously. I collected myself, then made an effort to sit up. The first time around it just brought me close to vomiting. The second time I actually made it, though it didn't help my nausea. The sun was close to the horizon, I saw. In front of me, the endless ocean rippled and rose into a liquid relief of a male human face.

"Salutations," it said.

"What the fuck are you?" I returned the greeting.

The face rippled, gagged, then spoke. "I am ocean."

I looked around myself; all that could be seen in any direction was the curve of the earth, far away in the distance. "You did this?"

It looked uncertain for a moment. Then, "Yes."

"I hate it. Stop it. I hate you."

"Really?" Ocean furrowed its liquid brow, then closed its eyes. "I'll think about it." Then it sank back into the water.

I was all the more befuddled. I thought about laying down again, but decided against it, since sitting up had been such hard work. At the same time I wondered if anyone else had survived, if there was someone else sitting on a raft somewhere, wondering what the hell just happened. What if they didn't find me until I was dead?

A wave of nausea hit and I flopped onto my back with eyes closed, and groaned. My thoughts danced around me like will o' the wisps, my brain was dazed. I came to a conclusion. I rolled myself onto my stomach. There was a pencil in my pocket; I fished it out, and started writing, from foggy piecemeal recollection, onto the pages of the Theory of Poker.

Blargh, im ded (no day 10)

Today has but a very slim chance of happening. Don't hold your breath for tomorrow, either.

No explanations. Assume my puppy died or something.

Locution blog post (Day 9)

Having exhausted myself somewhat yesterday, I gave myself a breather and wrote a Locution blog post about the challenge.

Charlie and the Ship is due to continue tomorrow.