The Captain's Hat

The Captain’s Hat

By Glen Flensoz

They won’t look me in the eye anymore.

Not since Erik.

He was green, soft in the hands, but sharp. Too sharp. The kind of man who still believed there was a right and wrong way to survive the sea. I envied him for that. The rest of the crew had already learned: the sea doesn’t reward the righteous. It doesn’t even remember them.

The wind was bad that night. You could feel it in the rigging before it hit—the tension, like a held breath across the whole damn ship. I gave the order to hold course. Erik said it wasn’t worth the risk.

I didn’t yell. I didn’t threaten. I simply looked at him, then at the others. And he obeyed.

They always do. Until they don’t.

We lost a winch, nearly lost the port net. Erik went below to secure the cable and didn’t come back up. The screaming didn’t last long. That’s the mercy of the sea—it finishes things quickly.

I never said a word about it after. Neither did they.

But silence doesn’t mean peace.

That’s the curse of the man at the helm: they follow you, even when they hate you for it. You bring them home with broken hands and empty eyes, and they still load up again when you tell them to.

But I know. I see it in the way they pass me on the deck, shoulders tight, lips closed. I hear it in the way they don’t speak my name.

They’ll never forgive me. Not for Erik. Not for Mateo. Not for the storms I steered them into. Not for the orders I gave, or worse—the ones I didn’t.

They think I’m some cold bastard who traded their lives for quota. Maybe they’re right. But no one ever asks what it costs to be obeyed.

You want to be the captain? Then you better be ready to live with ghosts.

I don’t sleep much anymore. Not because I’m afraid of what they’ll do. I know what’s coming. I’ve seen the way they cluster when I’m on the bridge. The sudden hush when I come near. Mutiny’s not a surprise—it’s a storm you watch build for days.

And when it comes, I won’t resist.

I’ll go over the side like any other dead weight. Quietly. Finally.

They’ll tell stories. Maybe even call me a bastard. But they’ll keep the boat afloat.

And that’s what a captain’s for.

—
Until next time, may the sea be rough enough to remind you who you are.