The Maiden and the Monster

“It’s like something out of a fairy tale,” the young girl had said. And, while I wasn’t one to believe in fairy tales, I didn’t argue, admiring her wonder and enthusiasm.

The vessel, off on her maiden voyage, did indeed prove a smart-looking, impressive ship. The “Millionaire’s Special” they nicknamed it. And with the likes of the Guggenheims and the Astors among its glitterati, the moniker seemed apropos. At least for the uppermost decks.

But regardless of class, the lot of us—just north of 2,000—would all arrive in New York City at the same time.

Or so we thought.

On the evening of April 14th, that all changed.

Ever one to poke my ears anywhere I might, I had overheard mutterings of iceberg warnings. Not that I thought much about it: they were common obstacles to be avoided for ships traveling in these parts. And I had heard further that we had altered our course to avoid the issue.

Later that evening, I was out enjoying a smoke with Frederick Fleet, one of the handsome lookouts, currently on a break. He grumbled, disgruntled, about a pair of binoculars that had gone missing from the crow’s nest. I told him he could borrow the pair of opera glasses I had in my luggage, and he chuckled. I was always good for a laugh to cheer a person up.

The next thing I recall was heading back to my room when I could feel the ship’s slow lurch to starboard. Likely to avoid an iceberg, I surmised.

But a horrific thud and crunching, eerily muffled by the water, stopped me in my tracks. I steadied myself, holding onto the handrails and peered out to try to see what had happened. Had we actually hit the iceberg we were avoiding?

Distress signals went out. Crew members began dashing about.

“What happened?” I shouted.

“We’ve hit something! And we’re taking on water!”

I stood, mouth agape, as he ran off.

I looked out at the water, mind reeling.

And that’s when I saw it.

A great beast rising from the deep, breaking the sea’s surface, water crashing and splashing about the creature’s barnacle-covered, scaly, spiney head and snake-like neck. It opened its massive maw and rows of razor teeth gleamed from the lights of the ship.

Then the lights went out!

Emergency lights eventually came on as crew and passengers alike scrambled about. I tried to locate the creature, but it was too dark. Or the beast has submerged again.

And, frankly, I had no time to think, for I was instantly swept up in the nightmare of what transpired after that; the madness of filling the lifeboats, the panic and screaming and crying; the sickening, sinking of the bow.

But I do remember, watching from my lifeboat as the ship split in two, thinking about that little girl’s statement at the start of the trip.

“It’s like something out of a fairy tale,” she had said. And I thought about that creature I had seen; the one I was certain had caused this disaster. It was like something out of a fairy tale!

And you all know the rest of the story: the official tale of the iceberg that downed the Titanic.

But I know better. I know it was something much more frightening.

And I’ll never set foot near the water again.

Or my name isn’t Molly Brown.