Shizen By Ernie Tupp

Shizen, thought Ernie Tupp, his head in his hands. He sat on a purple cushion atop a small, upturned bar-fridge. Plastic plates and coffee mugs littered the floor. A kilo of masala powder had burst its bag, filling the air with capsicum enough to catch in his throat and irritate his eyes.
This is it.
He sneezed twice and looked east out the cabin window. A demure Indian Ocean spread out like blue plasticine. His clawed his nails deeper into his scalp.
Man, what to do?
The contents of the yacht were shook up. Fresh drinking water lay spilled in a puddle at his feet, mixed with red ochre from the spice. Cutlery, paperbacks, and a screwdriver set were tossed around him. Loose serviettes were pasted like stickers to the walls. The cabin appeared
Between his thighs a sealed champagne bottle rested; except it wasn’t real champagne. Its pink label contained a small silhouette of a woman doing the hoola. Naughty Girl Rosé. Sparkling wine, a gift from Jocelyn.
He placed the bottle on a bolted table where it sat taunting him: who needs water, pal?
Ernie let out a low wail. Grey-black curls escaped between his fingers as his ox-head shuddered in his hands.
What to do?
After Brenda had left him he’d felt just as alone as he did now, though that was a lonesomeness he had learned to control.
Not fair.
That is what wounded him, the unfairness of it. Ernie let out a soft sob. His scrawny legs, jaundiced coloured, poked out of blue gym shorts. His hands dropped to rest on a rotund drinkers belly and he rubbed his tummy like a pregnant woman might caress her unborn.
What to do, what to
Its about . . .“
“Do you think its too early to pop this, Ernie?”
“Its about leaving him a dream, Jos. Its about . . .”
“Perhaps we should chill it a bit first?”
“Its about being able to sail away somewhere. At the drop of a hat. To escape it all. Isn’t it, Jos?”
“Mmm. I kind of like it here. But anyway, escape from what, Ernie?”

The Petunia wasn’t born anywhere near the ocean. She was conceived in Krugersdorp, on the East Rand. For years Ernie had seen her inchoate black prow peering over a vibacrete wall on Rustenburg Road. She was a second hand dream then, becalmed in suburbia. About six months after his divorce went through - and Brenda prodding him for her settlement - a For Sale sign was painted in red where the boat’s name should’ve been. On an impulse he’d bought her for almost nothing. Next he’d sold up their home, paid Brenda her dues and transported the hull down to Richards Bay. Gradually, over three years, Ernie fitted the Petunia and ran through whatever profit he’d made off the house. The Petunia was complete and Ernie was broke. When friends asked what he was doing, he always shrugged. No regrets, boet. And in a way, everyone knew what he