We're nothing but a ship of fools, basking in our days of glory
Posted: Sun Aug 04, 2019 10:02 pm
Ask anybody what their favourite sport is, and their answer’s probably gonna be something like ‘football’ or ‘baseball’ or ‘soccer’. Maybe ‘golf’ or ‘wrestling’. Quite possibly ‘none, because sport sucks’. Odds are the amount of people who’d say ‘water polo’ could be counted on one hand, or less.
The same was true for the vast majority of the Southern Chattanooga Water Polo Club. There was only a very small core group who’d been at the club for years, now. The rest of the team was constantly in flux, made up of people who joined for one or two sessions, then left when they realised the sport wasn’t for them, or people who were more like ghosts, absent for weeks or months on end before suddenly appearing by the side of the pool without a word to anybody.
So when Stepney Cruz didn’t turn up to the sports centre on the 16th of June, most people didn’t bat an eye. The casual members of the club knew little about him, the members in it solely for exercise and not for socialisation had no interest in getting to know him. They didn’t really know much of his other interests, didn’t know what he wanted to do after graduating, and certainly didn’t know what school he went to. As far as they knew he was just the dude with messed up eyes, and as far as they knew he just hadn’t felt like swimming today.
Sarah Chevalier knew that wasn’t the case, as she sat in the main foyer of the sports centre, tightly clutching her phone, eyes fixed on the screen as she cycled through the same three apps over and over and over. Messages, Facebook, Discord. Messages, Facebook, Discord. There were five people at the Water Polo Club who actually knew who Stepney was. Sarah was one of them. She knew that he went to George Hunter High School. She knew that he loved water polo, and would show his friends at school photos from their swim meets and competitions. She knew he’d been scheduled to come back from his senior trip last week.
He’d promised to message her, and the other core members of the water polo club, the moment he was back in Chattanooga. Since last Saturday, the only messages in their conversations between each other had been her own.
Deep down, buried miles and miles within her, she knew. There was only one realistic answer as to what had happened to Stepney, and she was certain that the others knew it too, but every time the front entrance to the sports centre slid open, she spun around in her chair. Every time, it was one of the other water polo club members, or someone here for the gym or for the badminton courts, and they’d give her an odd look and walk past, and she’d slump a little lower in her seat.
The other four slowly slipped in over the next fifteen minutes. Sonia, Harrison, George, Nasir - the whole gang was here, minus one. They uttered hushed greetings as they sat around the low wooden table, and as the stream of people entering the sports centre slowed to a trickle, little more was said, all five of them performing the same actions; looking from phone, to door, to nervous glances at the others, and then back to phone.
Coach came out of the changing rooms after a few minutes, hurrying over to the group, asking what was going on.
“We’re waiting for Stepney.”
Was the collective, almost-whispered response, and Coach’s huge, 6’3” form seemed to shrink a little as they nodded and headed back to the rest of the club, leaving the group to their bubble of silence.
The next hour and a quarter dragged on. The fabric of the brightly coloured chairs they were all sat on was patchy and itchy. The hum of the vending machines broke through the bubble, growing louder and louder as time inched its way forwards. Harrison got up and grabbed coffee for everyone that nobody wanted to drink. The only words spoken were frustrated curses as they received messages from friends and family, and everyone on planet Earth who wasn’t named Stepney Cruz.
The water polo club drifted past them eventually, chatting to each other as they left the building, bright smiles on exhausted faces. Later still, Coach walked past as well, glancing at the group and silently shaking their head before leaving too. They all stayed seated, hoping against hope that Stepney would stroll in now, huge grin on his face, something like ‘Surprise!’ or ‘Got you good, huh?” on his lips.
Another hour passed. Eventually the group started to disperse, hurried ‘goodbyes’ and ‘we’ll talk later tonights’ as they slipped through the sliding doors and into the evening outside. Harrison first. Then George and Sonia together. Then Nasir, after looking at Sarah for several seconds, words on his lips that just kept failing to come out before he turned and left too.
Sarah remained, heart an anchor descending down her body, until the receptionist came over, gently reminding her that the sports centre was closing now. Slowly, she stood up, shaking hands fumbling her phone back into her pocket, and she felt herself leaving the building, glare of the fluorescent lights replaced with the evening’s navy blue, the lights outside still not having flicked on yet. There was a light drizzle, and Sarah desperately hoped that it would turn into a downpour as she was standing there.
But she stayed there for five minutes, and the rain continued to be nothing more than a gentle sprinkling, so she started to walk home in silence, still convincing herself that everything would be okay again in the morning, same as she had for the past seven days.
((Sarah Chevalier, Sonia Salazar and Nasir al-Habsi continued in We're drifting on the open sea, uncertain why the wind won't blow, Harrison Ricciardo and George Fletcher-Hart continued in We've passed so many sinking friendships, so sure that wouldn't be our fate))
The same was true for the vast majority of the Southern Chattanooga Water Polo Club. There was only a very small core group who’d been at the club for years, now. The rest of the team was constantly in flux, made up of people who joined for one or two sessions, then left when they realised the sport wasn’t for them, or people who were more like ghosts, absent for weeks or months on end before suddenly appearing by the side of the pool without a word to anybody.
So when Stepney Cruz didn’t turn up to the sports centre on the 16th of June, most people didn’t bat an eye. The casual members of the club knew little about him, the members in it solely for exercise and not for socialisation had no interest in getting to know him. They didn’t really know much of his other interests, didn’t know what he wanted to do after graduating, and certainly didn’t know what school he went to. As far as they knew he was just the dude with messed up eyes, and as far as they knew he just hadn’t felt like swimming today.
Sarah Chevalier knew that wasn’t the case, as she sat in the main foyer of the sports centre, tightly clutching her phone, eyes fixed on the screen as she cycled through the same three apps over and over and over. Messages, Facebook, Discord. Messages, Facebook, Discord. There were five people at the Water Polo Club who actually knew who Stepney was. Sarah was one of them. She knew that he went to George Hunter High School. She knew that he loved water polo, and would show his friends at school photos from their swim meets and competitions. She knew he’d been scheduled to come back from his senior trip last week.
He’d promised to message her, and the other core members of the water polo club, the moment he was back in Chattanooga. Since last Saturday, the only messages in their conversations between each other had been her own.
Deep down, buried miles and miles within her, she knew. There was only one realistic answer as to what had happened to Stepney, and she was certain that the others knew it too, but every time the front entrance to the sports centre slid open, she spun around in her chair. Every time, it was one of the other water polo club members, or someone here for the gym or for the badminton courts, and they’d give her an odd look and walk past, and she’d slump a little lower in her seat.
The other four slowly slipped in over the next fifteen minutes. Sonia, Harrison, George, Nasir - the whole gang was here, minus one. They uttered hushed greetings as they sat around the low wooden table, and as the stream of people entering the sports centre slowed to a trickle, little more was said, all five of them performing the same actions; looking from phone, to door, to nervous glances at the others, and then back to phone.
Coach came out of the changing rooms after a few minutes, hurrying over to the group, asking what was going on.
“We’re waiting for Stepney.”
Was the collective, almost-whispered response, and Coach’s huge, 6’3” form seemed to shrink a little as they nodded and headed back to the rest of the club, leaving the group to their bubble of silence.
The next hour and a quarter dragged on. The fabric of the brightly coloured chairs they were all sat on was patchy and itchy. The hum of the vending machines broke through the bubble, growing louder and louder as time inched its way forwards. Harrison got up and grabbed coffee for everyone that nobody wanted to drink. The only words spoken were frustrated curses as they received messages from friends and family, and everyone on planet Earth who wasn’t named Stepney Cruz.
The water polo club drifted past them eventually, chatting to each other as they left the building, bright smiles on exhausted faces. Later still, Coach walked past as well, glancing at the group and silently shaking their head before leaving too. They all stayed seated, hoping against hope that Stepney would stroll in now, huge grin on his face, something like ‘Surprise!’ or ‘Got you good, huh?” on his lips.
Another hour passed. Eventually the group started to disperse, hurried ‘goodbyes’ and ‘we’ll talk later tonights’ as they slipped through the sliding doors and into the evening outside. Harrison first. Then George and Sonia together. Then Nasir, after looking at Sarah for several seconds, words on his lips that just kept failing to come out before he turned and left too.
Sarah remained, heart an anchor descending down her body, until the receptionist came over, gently reminding her that the sports centre was closing now. Slowly, she stood up, shaking hands fumbling her phone back into her pocket, and she felt herself leaving the building, glare of the fluorescent lights replaced with the evening’s navy blue, the lights outside still not having flicked on yet. There was a light drizzle, and Sarah desperately hoped that it would turn into a downpour as she was standing there.
But she stayed there for five minutes, and the rain continued to be nothing more than a gentle sprinkling, so she started to walk home in silence, still convincing herself that everything would be okay again in the morning, same as she had for the past seven days.
((Sarah Chevalier, Sonia Salazar and Nasir al-Habsi continued in We're drifting on the open sea, uncertain why the wind won't blow, Harrison Ricciardo and George Fletcher-Hart continued in We've passed so many sinking friendships, so sure that wouldn't be our fate))