photo of rope and cables in a rusty ship wall

No remembered lurch crunch though there must have been when hull met rock, uncharted, 2 am-ish, short summer dark. Tide in Alaska ebb, many meters to fall quick. Old hand four (five? seven?) weeks into six-month deckhand contract. Had drilled for it: abandon ship.

No. Did feel it. Lurched up from book in crew lounge to bridge, down belowdecks for gear, up to liferafts strapped to top deck. Crane whine lowering Zodiacs. Slip open (the name the name the name can feel cold stainless, slick, tension on mouth numb hands weak what what what is it called) pelican hook. Count together to heave over plastic shell. Pops open on impact, orange tent inflates, floats upside down. Right it. Drag to stern by thin painter. Ladder too high above water. Jury-rig semi-teetering steps. Guests lined up with coats, pills, bags (not allowed). Help clamber down, in.

dark, damp floor sags
soft, awkward—one woman hauled over lip
blush of pink nylon panties
Boat tug-propped against wreck. Stay with mate, engineer, another deckie. Coats list from companionway hooks. Silence, waves, hull groan. Hours. Slow tidal refloat and the next day resume.
snuck, ziplocked, shoved
twin buds forced by notebook corners
bloom on upper thighs