Chapter 17: Rough Seas
Kyle woke to the sound of steel meeting steel.
He cracked open one eye. The sun was barely over the horizon, and already Roger and Jabba were at it—sword against axe, their laughter echoing across the beach. Each clash sent shockwaves through the sand, rattling Kyle's bones where he lay.
"Good morning, little Kyle!" Roger called between strikes, not even winded.
Kyle pulled his blanket over his head. "It's too early for this."
"Early is the best time!" Jabba's axe carved a trench in the sand. Roger dodged, spun, and tapped Jabba's shoulder with the flat of his blade.
"One–zero," Roger said.
"That was luck."
"Kuhahaha! Luck counts!"
Kyle groaned and sat up. His body ached from yesterday's training, but the smell of coffee drew him toward Rayleigh, who was already brewing a pot over the remains of last night's fire.
Rayleigh handed him a cup without a word.
"Thanks." Kyle wrapped his hands around the warmth. "They've been at it for how long?"
"An hour." Rayleigh took a sip of his own coffee. "Jabba's getting faster."
Kyle watched the two men trade blows. Jabba's style was raw, powerful—every swing meant to crush. Roger met it with precision, never using more force than necessary. It was like watching a storm try to catch smoke.
"They're going to wreck the beach," Kyle muttered.
"The beach will recover."
---
The problem wasn't the beach. It was the ship.
Kyle stood at the water's edge, staring at the vessel that had carried them this far. It had never been pretty, but now it looked like it was held together by hope and old rope. The patch from Roger's Haki demonstration still held, barely, but the mast had a visible lean, and the rudder creaked like a dying animal.
"We can't sail on that," Kyle said.
Roger strolled up beside him, still sweaty from sparring. "Why not? It floated here."
"Barely."
"Kuhahaha! That's all it needs to do."
Jabba joined them, his axes slung across his back. "It's a good ship. Tough."
Kyle looked at them both, then at Rayleigh, who was already loading supplies onto the deck. "Am I the only sane person here?"
"Probably," Rayleigh said without looking up.
---
They set sail an hour later.
The wind was favorable, which was the only thing going for them. The mast groaned with every gust. Water sloshed in the hold no matter how many times Kyle bailed it out. And the rudder—the rudder was a constant battle.
"She's pulling left," Rayleigh said from the stern.
"I'll fix it!" Roger grabbed Jabba's axe and jammed the blade into the water, using it like a paddle to steer. The ship lurched, then steadied.
Kyle stared. "You're steering with an axe."
"It works, doesn't it?"
"For now."
They made slow progress. Every few hours, something new would break. A rope snapped, and Kyle had to climb the mast to rerig it. The patch over Roger's hole began to leak, and he used his vibration power to hold the wood together while Rayleigh hammered in a fresh seal. Jabba kept the axe‑rudder steady, his arms bulging against the current.
By midday, Kyle was soaked, exhausted, and ready to mutiny.
"We need a real ship," he said, collapsing on a crate. "This one's going to kill us."
Roger sat across from him, completely unbothered. "It's gotten us this far. Show some respect."
"It's trying to kill us!"
"Respect," Roger repeated, grinning.
Jabba laughed from the stern. "Kid's got a point. But a ship's like a crew—you don't give up on it just because it's rough."
Kyle opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Jabba was looking at him with something like approval. Roger was watching too, his grin softer than usual.
"You survived an island alone for three years," Rayleigh said from the helm. "I think you can survive a leaky boat."
Kyle let out a long breath. "Fine. But if we sink, I'm swimming to the nearest island and leaving you all."
"Kuhahaha! You'd miss us."
"I'd try not to."
---
The sun was setting when Rayleigh called for a stop. They anchored in a sheltered cove, the water calm, the ship finally still.
Kyle sat on the bow, watching the colors shift from orange to purple to black. His body ached. His hands were raw. But the ship was still floating, and they were still moving forward.
Roger appeared beside him, two cups in hand. He passed one to Kyle—juice, not rum.
"You did good today," Roger said.
"I complained the whole time."
"That's part of the job." Roger leaned against the rail. "A captain needs someone to tell him when he's being an idiot."
"That's a full‑time job."
"Kuhahaha! Exactly."
They sat in silence for a moment. Below deck, Jabba's voice rose in song—something rough and old, a shanty about the sea and the wind. Rayleigh joined in, his voice quieter but steady.
"Bink's Brew, Bink's Brew, we'll deliver to you…"
Kyle listened. The tune was familiar from another life, but here, in the dark with the ship swaying beneath him, it felt different. Older. Truer.
Roger began to hum along, his voice low. After a moment, Kyle joined too—quietly at first, then louder.
"Waves will guide us, stars will show the way…"
They sang until the stars were out, the three voices rising and falling with the rhythm of the sea. The ship creaked, the water lapped at the hull, and for a moment, Kyle forgot how tired he was.
When the song ended, Roger clapped him on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, we find a shipwright. A real one."
"Promise?"
"Kuhahaha! Promise."
Kyle smiled despite himself. "Alright."
He stayed on the bow long after Roger went below, watching the stars wheel overhead. The ship wasn't much. The journey was hard. But he was here, with them, and for now, that was enough.
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End of Chapter 17
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