In Laymon's Terms

“These ships were made to get wet inside, you know? So it’s wet. The draft here couldn’t be more than twenty feet. I do think,” he stared out over the ship, “that you’re responsible for doing whatever it takes to make her seaworthy, right? You know that?”

Ms. Jolson nodded and pointed towards the gangway. The Overseer led them there.

A pitted deck and scabrous superstructure greeted them. Stumps of metal dotted the surfaces where the stowing forces of the government chose to tear away the weapons and antenna. They leaned towards the stern as they walked to accommodate the ship’s list, gathering their sea legs, as it were.

One ship over, peering down from the heightened deck of a rust-caked cargo ship, Jong watched the strangers walk the decks of his sound machine...his sea-stranded orchestra...and he frowned. His toes tapped out dismay. His tongue clucked disconcert. With a backwards fall and roll, Jong moved away from the edge and sat with splayed legs. This wasn’t good, so it must be time to think. Time for sounds and time for decisions.

“She wants you to leave. She wants to look around.”

The Overseer imitated her with his own hands, flicking his fingers and turning them over. “Is that what she said? With her hands? How do they do that?”

“Ask her, you oaf. She may be mute, but she’s not deaf.”

His face reddening, the Overseer backed towards the gangway. “Ships are dangerous places, okay? You be careful. I really shouldn’t leave.”

“But you have things to do, right?”

“I have things to do. I’ll leave the gate unlocked and you can lock it when you go.”

“Here...pay the taxi for us.” He handed over a twenty-dollar bill. “We’ll call another when we go.”

Willy took the twenty and hurried away. The gangway bounced with every step as Mr. Genuit turned to Ms. Jolson.

I need to see inside, she signed. Alone. I’ll start at the top and work down.

“Be careful. The oaf was right—ships are dangerous. Especially when they’ve been practically abandoned for decades.” He looked around. “What a waste. All these...”

If they weren’t here they would only be scrapped. That’s what the literature said. Now it has a chance to be something for an eternity. A living piece of art.

“I know. The concept of welding your vision into this muscularity, then sinking it to grow fauna and house creatures on the seafloor, it’s bewitching. Mixing museums and artificial reefs...you’re a genius.”

Flattery? How not like my lawyer. Are you staying here?

“I’m a fan, first.” He looked around to find an open hatch dropping below decks with a ladder protruding from its maw. “No, I’m going down there. I want to see the flooded section. Again, be careful.”

You, too.

Walking towards the superstructure, Evelyn Jolson eyed the bubbled rust and paint of the steel staircase going up. It tilted some, inward, but maybe it was supposed to. Maybe it made hanging on easier in the thick of storms and whatnot. The first three steps came with measure, but she moved up quickly after that. The steel didn’t complain.

There were three levels above the main deck, each smaller than the one below but all much more than she’d expected. Rooms with brass tubes and hanging compasses and enormous square boxes that could only be radios from generations past. The paint, a uniform gray with an occasional warning in black or yellow, did nothing for her vision. The shapes would work, but the color would not. In her head she already pictured the huge hose of a sandblaster taking it all down to bare metal. Ripping out the tubes and the conduits and military trifles, leaving only the bulk.

At the top level, surrounded by thick, yellowing glass, was a stately metal chair that must have been home for the Captain. Beside it a table stood, with a microphone and a coffee cup slot. Certainly important for the Captain to have his coffee cup. She scraped at the glass, but the yellow held. It would have to be removed before the artwork was sunk. No...it would have to be bashed. One didn’t just “remove” the glass on a ship of war. There’s no energy in “removing.”

She dropped down a level to find one pane already missing. Looking out over the weather-ravaged deck, she wondered what she might use as an anchor point for the hundreds of yards of thick hemp rope she planned on weaving all about the exterior. And there would have to be cuts made throughout the deck. Big cuts. Squares and circles and triangles to let the ocean life gather and play deep inside her artistic whim.

Evelyn rubbed her lips.