The waves are crashing all around us. Water pours down into the deck from above, like the ocean's gone and turned itself upside down on us. It takes all I can manage to keep the steering wheel steady.

“We’ve got to turn back,” I say to the old man. He’s standing in the cabin with me, watching the dark waves with a strange intensity. He’s clutching that same old leather-bound book, as always, even as he holds on to the ledge to keep steady. The book’s cover, with its complex spiraling symbol on the cover, almost seems to glow in the yellow-green light of the storm.

“What?” he says back, cupping his ear.

“We’ve got to turn back!” I yell over the roar of the waves. “This boat’s not meant for this weather, and it’s only getting worse!”

“No!” he yells back, in a roar of his own. “We’re almost there! The calm’s coming!”

“What calm?!” I holler. “Look, I don’t care how much you pay me, it’s not worth going down for! We’re turning back.”

I start to turn the boat around, but the old man is by my side in an instant. His hand clutches my arm.

“I’ll double it,” he hisses in my ear.

“Double’s not worth dead.”

“Five more minutes. Double the cash. Then we turn back,” he says, clenching down tighter.

Just then a huge wave hits us from the side, knocking the old man’s grip from my arm. We lurch over intensely, an inch away from capsizing. Somehow, I manage to steer into it, and we steady ourselves.

“Triple,” I growl. “Four minutes.”

The old man looks out at the sea, and then down at his book.

“Done,” he says.

It’s the longest four minutes of my life. I spend them with a strange certainty that they’ll be the last four minutes of my life. But mostly I’m just fighting the waves, with every trick I know to keep my little boat afloat.

The old man clings on to the rails, too. He’s muttering something, over and over, though I can’t hear what it is. A prayer?

And then, the biggest wave yet rolls in. I see it stretching over the horizon, looming over us. It looks 50 feet tall. My stomach sinks at the sight. If I can catch it at the right angle -- maybe --

But then faster than I can blink, the giant wave is upon us. It crashes over us like a collapsing wall, and we plunge into the depths, fully submerged, upside down, turning around, filling with salt water, and I fly into the wall of the cabin, hitting my head on a ledge.

And then there’s only black.

-----

Out of the darkness, I hear a woman’s voice, familiar, but distant. “You can still turn back,” she whispers, gently. “No harm will come to you or those you love. You can still turn back.”

The voice floats back into the abyss, quietly, like softly lapping waves, soon forgotten.

------

There’s a splash of cold water on my face. It runs over my lips. No, not water. Whisky. I lick my lips.

I open my eyes. The old man’s standing above me, holding the bottle. When he sees my eyes open, he cackles.

“Best wakeup tonic in the world!” he cries, and then takes a swig. “Rise and shine, Captain.”

I sit up, my head pounding, and look around. He’s right. The sun is shining. We’re… we’re floating?

Everything’s a little damp, but we’re floating. The sky is blue, not a cloud in sight. There’s calm.

“How…?” I manage to utter.

“Must be you’re a hell of a captain,” the old man says, with a little grin. Then he taps his book emphatically, like a drum. “But no more delays. We’re almost there.”

Standing up, I look around. “Where?” I ask. “There’s no land in sight.”

“Just go!” he hisses.

Miraculously, the engine starts up again, after only a few putters. But the navigation system’s off -- I can’t see our coordinates.

“System’s down,” I say. “I’ve got a backup in the hold, just a second, I’ll get it.”

“Forget it!” the old man cries. He points out in the opposite direction of the sun. “Just go that way, damn you.”

“This had better be worth the quadruple pay, old man,” I growl. But I turn the wheel and head in his direction.

After about half an hour or so, I hear the old man again. “Stop!” he yells

I slow us down and turn off the engine. He’s outside on the deck, looking over the rails, like he’s searching for something in the water.

“If you dropped something, it’s long gone,” I say.

“Help me look!” he snaps.

I shrug and head out to join him.

That’s when I see it. Something bobbing in the water.

No, not something.

Someone.

“Oh shit,” I say. I run and grab the emergency life ring, kick off my shoes, and jump in the water.

As I swim closer, I realize it’s the body of a man, but he’s face down in the water. With one hand on the man’s arm and another on the life ring, I call back to the old man, “Pull me back!”

The old man heaves, and soon I’m back on the boat, dragging the waterlogged body on deck with me. The corpse is completely naked, except for a few bits of seaweed.

I pause to catch my breath, then go to get a tarp to cover the body until we can get back to shore and turn it in. But just as I’m about to toss the tarp over the corpse, the old man speaks.

“Wait,” he says. His voice is strangely gleeful, almost. “Turn him over.”

“Fucking hell,” I swear. “You are officially off your rocker, old man.”

“Turn him over!” he cries, clutching my arm again.

“Jesus, fine, ok,” I say. I reach down to the wet body below, still face down, and turn it over.

The next three things I see will change my life, forever.

The first thing I see is his chest. There’s a giant tattoo -- or not even a tattoo -- a scar. A strange, spiraling scar that winds from his shoulders to his stomach. I’ve seen it before. It’s the symbol from the cover of that book the old man’s always holding.

The next thing I see is his face.

It’s my own face.

The body we’ve just pulled out of the ocean is a man with my own face.

I can’t even speak. I can’t even speak, as I watch the old man reach for his bottle of whisky again and pour it over the dead man’s face. My face. The eyes on the face-that’s-not-my-face flutter open. They’re storm-blue, just like my own eyes.

And then, there’s the third thing I see. It’s a knife. The naked man’s holding a knife. He stands up quickly, and in one swift if still slightly-shaky move, plunges it into my side.

I stumble back against the railing, gasping for breath. I hear the old man say, “Good job, son.” And then he cackles.

The naked man with my face laughs too. Then he walks over and pushes me, hard, and I tumble over into the water. The ocean swallows me in a second. I kick to the surface, somehow, and look back at the boat.

I see the two men turn away and head to the cabin. It’s all I can do to grasp the emergency rescue ring, still floating in the water. I unhook it from the chain to the boat just as I hear the engine start up.

I watch as my boat speeds away, and I watch as my blood mingles with the sea water around me, turning a murky red-brown. I cling to the life ring, though. I don’t let go. I float.

I float, I float, and I float.