The Crocodile

An assignment for school, but hopefully something that readers can connect to.

       Captain Peters did not often allow onlookers a perspective into his inward thoughts, but today was an exception. After eating a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon in his cabin, he joined the rest of the crew around nine and chatted with them quite cordially. He was a sincere gentleman, one who abstained from lies and cheating and cowardice. The crew respected him for this, and did every task he required of them. As such, the oil tanker that Peters ran was the most effective in a vast fleet of ships assigned to serve as petroleum vessels. He was proud of this fact, as were his crew, and with each expedition into the Persian Gulf it seemed as though the mission of supplying oil to the faraway powerhouse of America was easier and easier. Life, alike with his ship, was running smoothly for Captain Peters.

     Today was the day that they would arrive in Kuwait. Captain Peters anticipated this arrival, for it meant only a few more days out on the open sea. Once they reached America with a tanker brimming with petroleum, he would be able to reunite with his wife, Angela, for their anniversary. She would sparkle underneath the chandelier of their favorite French restaurant, and he would be vexed by her. Though he - a respectable man - did indeed deserve a woman such as her, he always adamantly refused this fact. He always swore she’d be better off without him, with a husband who kept a routine and was there to kiss her every night. She’d laugh and flick her wrist, insisting that though he coursed some of the most dangerous waters in the world that these travels great excited her greatly. He somehow conjured it in his mind that though her countenance was straight with truth, she was in fact crooked with lies.

   Kuwait was an enthralling nation of rising skyscrapers, constructed with funds of oil. Petroleum was paramount to the success of this desert nation, and it had indeed healed the wounds of a war which wasn’t so long ago. It was this nation which touted the potential of the Middle East; once war-torn, and now ascending the economic barometers with vigor. Kuwait reminded Captain Peters of Angela. He had found her a distraught teenager; he, at the time, had been twenty-three. He’d been volunteering at his church, standing over the altar and praying with anybody who wasn’t sure what to pray unto the Lord. She had fled into the church and down the aisle, hands covering her eyes which were flooded with tears. She’d just received the news, the news which challenged every tenet of the life which she had tried to establish for herself: she was pregnant, and at the age of sixteen, she’d surely be granted the life of a pariah. He knelt down with her on the altar, and prayed with her for some time before she rose with a face devoid of any sort of emotion. She thanked him, and departed from the church. This routine continued day after day until Captain Peters invited her to a coffee shop down the road from the church. She took him up on this offer, for she was lonely: her friends and family had shunned her, and this man was kind. They both drank coffee and discussed simple things, but the relationship that was developing between them was anything but simple. They were married some years later, and that baby which had been planted in Angela’s belly strutted down the same aisle which her mother had sprinted down, desperate for help, as a flower girl. Angela had risen from the ashes of defeat and carved a new life for herself, a true testament to the power of healing.

   Captain Peters was alerted around noon of a catastrophic event which would surely stifle the rumble emanating from the world’s engine. Oil prices had increased by more than half in America, caused by the rankling organization of OPEC. Captain Peters retreated to the phone, where he placed a call to some superior within his petroleum company.

   “Get out of there,” was the man’s advice on the other line. “Get out of the Persian Gulf, Peters, there looks to be a war.”

   “A war?”

   “Yes, Peters,” the man sighed, “America cannot run with oil prices at six dollars a gallon. That’s ridiculous. Those towelheads are at it again. Just try to get out of there before anyone gets hurt.”

    Captain Peters surrendered to the man’s command and ordered his men to turn the tanker around. The men, not fully understanding the urgency of the command, continued their work between card games and chitchat, to which Peters warned that danger was imminent and that they needed to reach the Strait of Hormuz by tomorrow morning. The pace of the crew quickened, and by the time the sun was setting it seemed as though they would indeed reach the Strait per Peters’ request.

   Peters retired to his room around midnight, and placed a call to Angela which wasn’t returned. He tried again, but still she didn’t pick up the phone. After three more attempts, she picked up the phone on the second ring.

   “Hello, Michael,” Angela’s angelic voice flooded into the phone, though she sounded perturbed. “Are you okay?”

   “I’m fine,” he confirmed, “but what’s going on in America now? I’ve received the news of a sudden gas hike.”

   “You can say that again,” she tittered on the other line. “I went to go get some gas today before the supply is cut, and you wouldn’t imagine the price. Seven dollars and sixty-three cents a gallon! I spent over one-hundred and fifty dollars.”

   Peters was stunned. Even the sweet voice of Angela couldn’t mask the unnerving situation, the situation which was surrounding his ship on all sides. “What do you mean, before the supply is cut?”

   “You haven’t heard?”

   “No…”

   “OPEC is planning to cut all oil supplies to the United States next week,” she said. “It’s their reaction to the president’s unwavering alliance with Israel. It’s nothing special, except for that OPEC is taking the most drastic action they’ve ever taken.”

   She stopped for a minute, and then said gingerly, “Where are you, Michael?”

   “The Persian Gulf., but don’t fret,” he assured her. “We’ll be out of here tomorrow morning.”

   “Please promise me that,” she asked, “because Iran just declared they’ll shut down the Strait of Hormuz any day now.”

   “You’re watching the news?”

   “Yes, Michael,” she began to cry, “I’m watching it right now. I’m scared, honey.”

    “Angela, don’t worry,” he said with a growing sense of incredulity, “we’ll be out of here tomorrow morning.”

   They talked for a few minutes more, and then brought the conversation to an end. Captain Peters hung up his phone and rose from the chair which he’d been sitting in, and walked over to the porthole which granted him a view of the Gulf.  The oil tanker gave off a radiating light, and so he could see the waves of the Gulf rise and fall continually. His mind drifted off as he stood there; he pondered how crucial these waters were to the Middle East, and how willing they were to protect them from the infiltration of outside forces.

   They were as a crocodile, drowning in a swamp of oil. Creatures with scales of red, white, and blue would visit occasionally and draw oil from the swamp; this helped the crocodile immensely, for with too much oil the animal would suffocate. The crocodile consented for its counterparts to detract oil from the swamp, but it soon recognized the animal’s greed and it’s susceptibly to this invaluable resource in which the croc was floating in. The crocodile instructs the creature to bring an occasional source of food for him, so that not only will he not drown but also have a full stomach. The creature at first protests, but then recognizes that without this resource its existence in this world would reach a terminal. Captain Peters smiled at this absurd thought, though he didn’t reject its truth. America was such a slave to petroleum, the resource which his entire livelihood was based upon, and though it was the Land of the Free no one could escape from the clutches of oil.

   Someone knocked on his door, and he rushed to open it. George Wilkins stood there. He was originally from Florida, and as such had a ruddy complexion; however, standing in the doorway, his face was flushed and his hands were trembling. Captain Peters knew something was the matter.

   “Captain, sir,” Wilkins stuttered, “they’ve closed the Strait.”

   “I was afraid that would happen.”

   “What are we going to do?”

   Captain Peters’ eyes fell to the floor, but he wouldn’t allow his mind to succumb to fear. His men relied on him heavily. He couldn’t retreat to his cabin and curl up like a ball on his bed. No, he had to take action " immediate action. The situation was too dire for him to inspect every plausible situation, yet it was too dangerous for a mislead decision. Captain Peters looked back up at Wilkins.

   “Look, man, I want everyone on board to convene in the dining room of the crew. That’s large enough to contain everyone, isn’t it?”

   “I believe so, sir.”

   “Then that’s where I want to have a meeting. Ten minutes, tops. Call everyone from the loudspeakers.”

   “Okay, Captain,” Wilkins saluted his superior and made his way down the hall. Peters couldn’t help but feel a deep admiration for the man, who was infallible when assigned a duty.

   The Captain entered back into his cabin and donned his uniform. As he was doing this, his mind wandered back into the realm of metaphors, back into the oil-rich swamp. The crocodile had made another request, another demand of the creature colored in red, white, and blue. Peters imagined the creature sighing and dropping everything in his grasp; he was already supplying the crocodile a profusion  food, enough to grow fat, and now he had the audacity to ask for more in exchange for his precious resource. How dare that crocodile!

   At the same time, however, he could empathize with the crocodile - the animal’s whose way of life had been disturbed, if not completely transformed by the constant request of that strange red, white, and blue creature. Indeed, he was full now; indeed, he had little to worry about. But the swamp had been a peaceful place before the intrusion of that needy creature, and at times the crocodile wanted to surely blockade his swamp and refuse oil to those mendicants who visited at all hours of the day. Surely, at times, he craved the flesh of that creature more than the flesh of the food the creature bestowed upon him, for that would bring him the tranquility which had been robbed of him long ago. Long ago, when that creature first realized that his existence relied upon the crocodile’s precious oil, was the root of both of their respective problems.

   Today, the crocodile not only blockaded his swamp but leaped towards the creature with his mouth open and teeth hanging sharply from his gums. Captain Peters, his crew, and the oil tanker in which his livelihood was based upon was now caught within the clutches of that crocodile, that crocodile who was earnestly trying to exhume the serene landscape he’d called home many years ago. Though the teeth of the crocodile were sharp and he craved the flesh of beggars, Captain Peters would not surrender to fear. He’d don his suit, walk downstairs to the dining room set apart for the crew, and announce to them what had become of the situation. They’d cluck like chickens headed for the slaughterhouse, but Captain Peters would assure them that everything was alright. Whether they believed him or not, he didn’t know, but he’d try to gain their trust. He’d never been one to fester lies and he wasn’t starting now, and hopefully the men and women working below him on this tanker would recognize that fact.

   After all of that madness, he’d return to his room and place a call to Angela. He dreaded this call, if she didn’t already know that the Strait was closed. Her voice would ring out like an angel, a terrified angel, but she wouldn’t be there to guard him; she was half-a-world away, in the belly of that creature which had provoked all of this mess. He’d assure her he’d be there for the anniversary, kiss into the phone, wish her a good afternoon, and hang up. The silence would break him, and the crash of the waves against the steel hull of the tanker would make him feel nauseous reminding him of the situation in which he’d been thrust, but he wouldn’t give up hope.

   He was ready to meet to the crew in the dining room below. George Wilkins returned and lead him to the large space, where the whole crew was swarming in terror. Captain Peters, now on stage, looked into their faces; they knew, just as well as he did, the situation and the danger which emanated from it. He tried to think of something to say, and eventually settled upon, “It seems as though we are Jonah and the whale, except for that this is a crocodile and we are a bunch of oilmen.”

   And in that moment Captain Peters hoped that, as Jonah had been spit out of the whale, he’d be spit out of the Gulf " through the Strait of Hormuz and back home again to a culture he understood and a woman he loved. It would be difficult, but just as God had been on Jonah’s side, Peters was certain that God was on his side as well, working tirelessly to save them from the peril of this immediate situation.

Author's Note

I'm the process of editing, but would love to hear some feedback.

Reviews

[wordman]

it is a great story,enjoyed it

[jvava]

Thank you for the review, sir! I apologize, I just saw this review. Is there anything you would change about this story?

[wordman]

you are doing fine with it,and don`t let people change anything except grammar possibly