Sculling

He was in the water, floating, sculling, enjoying the moon and the stars on this warm night.

He knew at some point he would have to head for the shore. It would take several hours but that was a lot less than the ten years he had spent in the last ninety minutes on that boat.

He had been taken on to effectively captain the boat on a trip around the islands and the gang who had paid for him said they were all competent at the tasks required to sail the boat.

They weren't.

And not only did they have no relevant skills, but the only things that had in abundance were how to complain and blame someone else for anything that went wrong, and that kept landing in his lap.

The food didn't taste right - his fault

They were going too slow - his fault

They were going too fast - his fault

Someone threw up - his fault

Every five minutes and it was always his fault.

If he weren't here they would not last a day.

None of them could swim, they couldn't work the radio and there was no mobile phone signal out here. Navigation skills were non-existent and he knew there was a storm coming.

He suggested turning back or changing course but they just went mad at him, throwing bottles and mugs. It wasn't just him that they attacked, each other seemed valid targets.

Within half an hour there were bruises and blood and then he thought "Fuck it, I'm outta here" and then went overboard, and here he was about a hundred metres from the boat, in the dark under the moon.

He was comfortable in the water sculling away slowly, and then something happened.

Someone had gone over the side. The boat had no lifebelts or jackets and he knew they were probably taking swings at each other now, and they couldn't swim. That one person over the side would be soon on the bottom of this sea, sleeping with the fishes, meaning there were five left on the boat.

He then waited, with an idea forming in his head.

He was now watching the boat, enjoying the warmth of the water as he waited. More noise and two of them fighting and grappling before both going over the rail and down to Davy Jones' Locker.

That meant there were only three left on the boat.

He started to think he might not have to swim back after all.

He would have some explaining to do but three he could deal with, and so he started swimming back.

Then a splash.

One more screamed and hit the water, and then there were two.

This was getting much easier.

He got back to the boat just as the penultimate body went overboard grabbing him as they fell in, but they couldn't hold on and soon were joining the others at the bottom of this sea.

There was one left.

He climbed aboard thinking the last one might listen to reason.

That wasn't going you happen, the last one ran at him screaming, he stepped to one side and they went over the rails to meet their watery fate with King Neptune.

He started to laugh and started up the engine. He didn't know how he could explain this, the fact that six idiots had fought and ended up going overboard and drowning.

He didn't expect it to end like this, and he did need to go to the police and just hoped that his story would be taken seriously.

But let's face it no one would believe this story.