When I lost my job. It signaled the beginning of a downward spiral in my life to where my inhibitions were multiplied, and my need for self destructive behavior were fueled as the culpability for my actions diminished in the wake of my suffering. I suppose it could be said that there was a hole in my life. One that I chose to fill with endless bottles of alcohol and drugs. And I suppose that is how I found myself, jumping from town to town, trying to erase my latest mistake until they all blurred into one.

When I finally woke up. Penniless. I found myself on the rocky shores of northern Maine where there were still wooden boats rocking in the docks like a cradle. Here I was able to stumble upon a crew, and become a deckhand. The first couple of days on the ship were incoherent pieces with wide empty gaps in my memory.

My earliest days were spent keeled over the side of the boat. The crew laughed as they thought I was sea sick. Common for landlubbers when the power of the Ocean pulls from deep within the gut. But although the swells were thick and plenty. It was coming off the drink that made me queasy.

When I had overcome my shaking on the 22nd day. I stepped out onto the deck and welcomed my first real breath of ocean air. The salt stung my lungs and the sun broke into rays from my open hand as I stared out into the endless horizon where the blue sea met the blue sky.

It became wonderless, how early sailors believed they had seen the edge of the world. Hard not to, when this was all there is, that and the dark bottomless pit below. The waves from 250 miles out, looks a lot more like shards of glaciers prickling along the Earth, rather than water. And beneath it, looks deep. So deep that it extinguishes the light from the sun. Smothering even the blue that seemed endless from the surface.

I tried not to think about how if I dropped a hook into the ocean. The large bent metal would continue to sink until it disappeared. It would fall, and fall, and fall. And even though I knew that there had to be a bottom somewhere down below. I couldn't convince myself after days on end of watching things sink, that there was a floor somewhere in that abyss. Instead I found a bit of solace in believing that at least I would be long dead from suffocation, before the darkness could swallow me.

A lie I had lulled myself into believing. Which revealed itself to me after a pelting from the east reminded us all why the Atlantic ocean is the deadliest on the planet. Because in one moment there were 5 of us on the deck. Hauling. Lines. Baiting. And then there were four.

I was the closest one to him when he vanished. Which meant I felt bits of the wave that peeked over the railing, that took him; hit me in the face. It felt as if I had been spit on as I ran over to where the man I had come to know went overboard. I got to see his face in the water. A line had wrapped around his neck, tangling one of his legs. He looked up at not me, but the sun. Crying out as he sunk. Though it looked more as if he had been dragged, the way the line whipped beneath him. I watched as pockets of air floated to the surface, but all I could hear were the waves crashing.

Perhaps that is the true sound of water. The sound of rocks and fish, animals alike, screaming for mercy as they are broken down. But at the time, all I could think about was, how he was still screaming as he disappeared. Perhaps the darkness began closer than I had hoped. Not far enough to drown in. Not before it swallowed people whole.

We were quiet in the cabin that day. Quiet in the mess hall. Quiet in our bunks.

That was until someone said, "He didn't have any family."

"What does that mean?"

"He didn't leave any information behind?"

Most of us shook our heads as if answering for ourselves.

"Skip won't know who to send the check to."

"I guess. That's one less share to split."

The sentiment was passed around. It made each one of them who spoke it, look like the fish I pulled out from the water. Their lips smacking, gobbling for air, right before they were dropped into the holding tank below.

A week would pass and the demands of the ocean had weathered away my resentments. The work gnawing at my bones each day until I could hardly stand. But I never buckled, never stopped concentrating on all the necessary steps to stay above the water.

I had adapted to the rigors of the fisherman's life. Eating and sleeping below deck in what was essentially a hallowed cork floating in the world's largest swimming pool. Gathering fish and the occasional crustacean for would be consumers back on land. For their tiny tables and dimly lit atmospheres. And overpriced wine, on date nights, in hopes to be touched by a woman.

Those dreams came to me softly at first. A brush of hair, a lingering hand, a kiss on the lips. Before their vividry consumed my nights. The madness for contact drove me to stare endlessly out of the round window that hung below the waterline. As I wondered how many seamen its beauty has captured since we first tried to tame it.

My lonely nights drew the ire of the other members in the crew. And tensions mounted as the close living quarters and phobia inducing hallways kept us on edge. The peace was bordering, when something changed.

"In all my years," the Skipper breathed. We were on deck, three awake. The night crew. "I've never seen anything like it."

The water was milk white, it looked as if the moon had spilled out from the horizon.

"Do you think it's some sort of photosynthesis?"

"You mean like algae?"

"Or plankton."

"I've read about red waves near Florida..."

The Skipper shook his head, "No one touches the lines. Until we're out of this mess."

One of the men looked down at the water and with an uneven look on his face said, "I wouldn't be eating any of that raw stuff if I knew that this was where it was coming from."

He needn't worry. When we finally passed the white ocean, and pulled up the lines. All of the life in the nets that we had been trolling, were dead.

We were ordered to toss our haul back into the water, as the ship chugged along.

That morning one of the younger guys who had been sleeping, talked about seeing something in the water at night. A face. A woman's face, but she was clear as glass. He told us she curled her fingers and beckoned him. And the urge to be by her side made him consider smashing the window. But the First Mate had snuck up behind him and covered his mouth. Dragging him away into the hall, to explain to him that it is better to believe that there was nothing there. That the ocean does funny things to our brains. That the salt changed our chemistry.

I soon forgot about it as the others laughed at him. I laughed too, although I never did sleep facing the window again.

As the months came, the work picked up. New talk arose through the ranks as old hands recalled the worst storm seasons that took the hardiest of crews. But I wasn't worried, as I had snuck a look at the Skipper's plans and knew that our voyage would soon start to head back to Maine after this last leg along the dotted isles. We would avert the wet season by a wide margin.

So I worked dutifully as we crossed the equator. Which made for some of the best fishing in my life. The hauls were plenty, and the diversity each catch presented caused enough commotion for me to talk the ear off my latest cohorts. Everything was a gander, down to the occasional reef shark, or mirrored fish with scales so reflective it looked like a knife in the water, and the freshest eating off the shelled backs I'll ever have.

It was warm and calm, and the ocean so grand and clear, that at times I could see the bright gold sand shimmering below. I wished we could have stayed there. I wished we could have fished and ate, pissing off the side of the boat as we boasted into the winds of our freedoms.

But the peace would not last.

We had switched from cages and nets to hand lines during this time. I was not bothered as the work presented more satisfaction to my deeds. Though some of the more experienced crew mates grumbled at the loss of revenue.

Although word had spread that the Skipper had been commissioned to find a coveted aquatic that only graced this part of the world. A delicacy for the few, had made this expedition possible. As the shores had been long picked, and picketed by conservationists. Crews were now met at the mercy of their wealthy consumers. And our benefactor had a certain palette for rarity.

And it was in search of this illusive creature, when I felt the shade upon my shoulder.

The sound of needles screaming, came next. Then the water disappearing from right under us. I felt the boat starting to sink. The rocks below growing in size as we dived closer. I held onto the rail. Panicking as I kept missing the buckle to secure myself to the boat. If it hadn't been for the First Mate clipping me to his belt. I would have been buried by the tower of water that blocked out the sun.

A rogue wave.

Dangerous and unpredictable.

And no one saw it. Not until it came crashing down. Not that we could have done anything in all of its might.

When I woke up, my body felt battered. I could see pieces of the wreckage as I hung in mid air. I looked up to see myself dangling about a foot away from the First Mate. The side of his face was missing completely. And I knew he was gone. But when a small white crab, prickled its tiny legs through the ragged skin surrounding his socket. I grew angry. Clawing after it as I tried to climb up. Only to drop against my own weight, feeling the bite of the line around my waist, as the crab stared at me and forcibly clicked its pincers before burrowing back into the man's flesh.

And it was only after I released myself from the clip and slammed into the sand below that I noticed that we had not been washed onto an island as I suspected. Instead this was the ocean floor. Had been, filled with water, and life. But now stood proudly bald.

I could feel an unnatural wind along my ears as my wandering footsteps searched for meaning and life alike. There were wailing fish and flat sting rays drying in the sun. But it was the blue whale resting on its side, the long deep scars and circular marks on its back that I'll never forget. It looked like a wet curve on the ocean floor at first. But then its body heaved as it struggled to breathe. I stupidly pushed a hand against it once I realized that it was being crushed by its own weight. It didn't even budge. So I did the only thing I could think of, which was to run until I came to face with its eye. The gloss in them reminded me of a horse. The field of its range, wide. And the look in them human.

There was nothing I could do, and somehow knowing that this creature knew that I was helpless. Made me feel all the worse. I ran my hand along its face, before continuing to follow the sound I had been following.

When I reached my destination. I couldn't understand how I didn't know it existed. Not until I almost came to its edge. Air was rushing downward, wisps of water still bubbling as the pit growled for more. A hole so wide, I thought the world had opened up. I started to feel it pull me forward, it was that deep.

The hole itself was immeasurable by any worthy standard at my disposal. However, it was deep. And so dark, that when I threw in one of the many floundering fish on the floor. The thing disappeared from view almost instantly.

I spent the next several nights, walking the edge. And picking up what food that hadn't rotted from the small reservoirs which pocked the land. When the rains fell. I rushed to these low points. Scooping out handfuls of salt water until it became drinkable. Always staying near the hole, as I figured that someone would surely discover this anomaly and come to my rescue.

Then one day I woke up to the slew of dots along the uneven terrain in every direction. By the time I discovered what they were. I was already in a jungle. Trees had sprouted out almost overnight. Although, I can't honestly call them trees because they had no bark. Even though their trunks were wide as elm. Several times I knocked against them. And once I managed to break one down, I found the sections to be hollow. They reminded me of weeds I had split down the middle as a kid on a summer lawn. Only for it to grow back within a day or two. So I put a theory to the test.

I broke down a patch of weeds and observed it over the next few days. In less than three nights the weeds had grown back to their original size. And not only that, but it had spread denser in places where I had cut, compared to areas that were left untouched.

Their growth rate was so astounding that I woke up one night to a particular pain in my back. It were as if I had been sleeping on a rock against my spine. I looked down and in the glow could see a tiny seedling had sprout beneath me. Its sharp head had been blindly turning into me as I slept, leaving behind a circular bruise as if I had been speared.

And in the morning, as I stared out to this sea of green. I knew that there was a real possibility that I was going to die in that jungle, imprisoned by the long handles, suspended in the air, trapped, and waiting until one of them impaled me.

I hadn't come this far to be skewered by glorified bamboo sticks, so I started breaking down the weeds. Using their own splinters for binding as they were quite malleable. In order to make a raft to leave from the receded shoreline in the distance.

Each day I would wake up and clear my work area. I had left the hole far behind and had setup camp near the water's edge. The waves would hit the newfound shore but it never climbed much further.

I began to believe that this island was seasonal. Appearing when the water was low and being engulfed during high tides throughout the year. And that the hole had always been there. stretching into the mantle and dispersing into steam as tectonic plates shifted. Which led me to think that there must be more of these bottomless holes out there, dotting the globe, hiding under the water as we floated over them.

And that my situation was no different than being a cast away. So I had to simply sail myself out.

These thoughts kept me going as I scoured the jungle for materials. I had inventoried the weeds into three distinct groups. One was strong and sturdy, which I would use to build the base of my raft. The other good for binding and weaving a sail. And the third for its fruit.

I had been reluctant to eat the fruit, even resorting to chewing on the malleable weeds which proved to be unconsumable; at first. But as I reached my starving point, as the water had dried up and the fish were long gone. And I was about to give in.

The slugs came.

Or at least they looked like slugs. They were flat and nearly translucent. If it weren't for the faint glow that they sometimes emitted. I wouldn't have even noticed them covering the branches near the hole.

I had seen them once or twice, in the day, near the top of the weeds, initially mistaking them for dew. But it was during the night when I would realize that they were tiny creatures eating the fruit.

After I snatched one, and squished its head under a rock. I lit a fire by rubbing two sections of a broken down weed together. There I cooked the slug but found it better eating, raw. Their consistency was that of duck tongue, but their flavor reminded me of beef. Bone marrow if I had to be specific. Not bad, but when I discovered that if I allowed the slugs to digest some of the fruit before consuming them, I couldn't stop eating them.

The first time it happened my reaction was immediate disgust. I had picked a slug without realizing it had a botched piece of fruit swimming in its stomach. The taste was horrendously sour and I was worried that I had consumed something rancid during my feasting.

The acidity was so overwhelming, that I spit it out as my throat contracted. Fearing for my life I tried to drink water but the airway was so thin I could barely breathe. As I started to wheeze, a familiar sensation overcame me. I felt as if I was drunk. And that I was the man. Oh yeah....I could do anything! These wobbly knees were feeling strong. Stronger than ever. Things couldn't be any better! I had a plan of action. A way to realize it. And now a palatable food source that also gave me this. This energy!

It was night at the chance encounter, and yet I was roaring to go to work. Which I did. Finding myself in some rampant rage to finish. Only to wake and doing it all over again. Consuming these slugs filled with the fruit until the edge began to wear off.

One slug turned to two. It was only a matter of time before I was stuffing down handfuls of them throughout the day in order to sustain the euphoria. And when that wasn't enough. I finally drove myself to the top of the third type of weed. And picked the fruit. Peeled it. And ate it right from the source.

I came in and out of consciousness for many days and many nights afterwards. Or perhaps it was only several hours. I do not remember. All I know is that when I regained my humanity. The hole was groaning in the distance, the water was harsh against the shore, and my legs were covered in slugs. I screamed as I felt one crawl against my neck. I felt it reach into my mouth, probe against the roof above my tongue, and tickle me. It was like a flashback that I could see. Then another. Soon I was having trouble controlling my arm. Instead those fingers caressed my face as if it had longed to be touched. Immediately I suspected the prolonged effects of the fruit as I lost my left eye. The vision shut down completely. The sudden darkness from one side of my brain, caused me to come tumbling into the sand.

The fall shocked my senses, and with my free hand I reached into my mouth to pull the slug out as I got to my feet. I could feel its thin slimy tendrils pressed into my throat as I pulled the suctions off the pink of my skin and squeezed my hand shut around its body. I could almost hear it scream as the slug oozed out of my palm. Slowly I felt my vision return to normal. And regained control of my lost appendage. I got to my feet and tried tearing off as many slugs off of me as I could. But there were just too many, and the tides were closing in. I could hear the water coming.

So I shut the qualm wailing in my heart and ran with all my might toward the raft. Several times I was nearly lifted off my feet as I jumped and dove through the jungle as the hole began to breathe, uprooting bits and pieces of the dead within its grave. But I managed to hang on to the last banded straws and forced myself aboard the flotation device.

Ocean water came circling in. I prayed that we would float as the water rose, crashing past me like long fingers tearing out the ground as I was lifted into the air. I opened my sail but to my horror the thing folded backwards. The raft crashed into the remaining limbs that punched through the surface of the cold water, before settling enough for me to slash the sail open. But it was no use. My raft and I were dragged toward the gaping hole. And just as I went over the edged, I had one good look of the darkness staring back at me before I was swallowed whole.

It felt like falling in a dream that never stopped, an unending rollercoaster all the way down to the bottom. Even though there was nothing.

When I woke up. I was being hauled onto a large ship. It was grey steel all over and the deck hands were stripping me naked as I stood unevenly. I could hear their voices but not make out any of the words. Several of them recoiled in horror as they saw the slugs on my ankles and thighs. One of the older men pushed the shocked others, and brushed roughly at my legs as he wrapped me in a blanket.

I watched numbly as the older man forced me to sit. And when I finally leaned against his shoulder and cried. The others scrambled into action. Someone handed me a jacket, while one of them rubbed the blood back into my legs. Another gave me a mug filled with warm coffee, ordering me to drink. I could smell the thick roast in my dry beaten throat, and greedily poured it into my mouth, burning my tongue. My face contorted, but not from the heat. It twisted into horror at the sight of the slugs dropping into the water and swimming off like beads of white paint.

When I told them what had happened to me. None of them believed me. They said I had grown delirious from the solitude and perhaps from swallowing salt water. Not even after I rested, would the captain hear my pleas.

Instead, on our way to a nearby port, the crew spent their time trying to convince me that I had conjured the island and this impossible fantasy in order to cope with my ordeal. But I know they're wrong. Because once I was strong enough to stand in front of a mirror, and open my mouth wide. I could still see the tiny ring marks in the back of my throat whenever I say ahhhhhh.