Reasons Why I'm Still Thinking About the Titanic

Recently, my dad and I came up with a challenge in hopes of alleviating some of our quarantine-inflicted boredom; we've been taking turns coming up with creative writing prompts at the start of every week. We take each prompt and roll with it, building on it with our own ideas. And by the end of the week we both end up with pieces of fiction that speak to our own interpretation of the challenge.

This week, for example, my dad came up with this prompt: "write a fictional 'letter in a bottle.'"

My dad wrote a really compelling short story, and I strongly recommend following this link and giving it a read.

I took the prompt in a bit of a different direction. As most of my readers know, my fascination with the Titanic is hardly recent. So it won't come as much of a surprise that I was naturally inclined to take a Titanic-esque spin on this week's challenge. This is what I came up with:

* * * * *

April 15, 1912. 11:56pm 

I am The Millionaire’s Captain. The Safe Captain. The White Star Line’s Marvel. 

Or, at least I was.

In less than two hours, my prosperous history will be buried in the depths of the North Atlantic, along with my adoring passengers who made it such. Three thousand of my passengers. Three thousand lives. Three thousand living, breathing souls with stories yet untold and seasons yet unspent. 

My inmost regret is that I accepted the faith they placed in me. They elevated me on a pedestal and leveled me with God. But now that they truly are in His hands, I can only pray that He shows them the mercy I was powerless to provide.

I may have been capable of preventing the tragedy to come had I not been so dismally ambitious. Had I only acknowledged the iceberg warnings. Had I only abided by the hull-speed protocol. Had I only insisted on equipping the Titanic with the essential lifeboats. Instead I recklessly considered myself inviolable, and I am about to endure my utmost discipline- which is not my own demise but the demise of those depending on me. 

Never have I so clearly understood why the Captain must go down with his ship. My guiltless passengers entrusted me and I failed, and like the God they likened me to, I am ultimately responsible for their legacy.

I will either save them or die trying.

And as I am so helplessly undivine, the outcome will surely be the latter.

And so, on the assumption that by sealing this futile letter in the bottle of my final toast I have spared it the same fate as The Unsinkable Ship, I want the world to know that I am sorry.

Regretfully yours,

Not the Millionaire’s Captain nor White Star Line’s Marvel, and certainly not God,

Captain E. J. Smith

* * * * *

And that's why I'm still thinking about the Titanic.