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Isaiah Jones vs the Sea (A 21st Century Odyssey) (chapters 1 – 2)

Isaiah Jones versus the Sea (A 21st Century Odyssey)

-a novel by Joey Da’rrell Cloudy

“I always tell the truth, even when I lie I tell the truth.”

-Tony Montana

Chapter One

Rhapsody in Black

“I am not African because I was born in Africa

but because Africa was born in me.”

-Kwame Nkrumah

January the first, 2121

Seven Nation Army

“…And I’m bleedin’, and I’m bleedin’, and I’m bleedin’

Right before the Lord

All the words are gonna bleed from me

And I will think no more

And the stains comin’ from my blood

Tell me, “Go back home”

-The White Stripes

I am Isaiah Leonardo Jones, when I was 16 years old, I sailed the SS Exodus from the United States of America to Africa alone; a journey that began 100 years ago today.

Chapter 2

Decolonization 101

“Decolonization is always a violent phenomenon.”

-Franz Fanon

“Free Your Mind.”

-Morpheus

Isaiah Leonardo Jones grew up in old East Dallas one of the city’s old Irish Catholic strongholds, one block off Swiss Avenue’s Munger Place Historic District, but he did not attend Catholic school; he was educated at home in a white two-story wood-framed house. In a neighborhood full of century-old two-story brick and wood-framed houses, schooled by his parents. Kennedy and Helena Jones, both retired veterans of the US armed forces who now supplement their retirement income working as adjunct professors at nearby Southern Methodist University. They did not teach him alone; they recruited a rotating chorus of tutors to help educate their son alongside the neighbor’s daughter, his best friend, Aeon Valeria Zavala. Aeon’s parents were both tenured professors at the same university.

Isaiah’s father, Kennedy Leonardo Jones, was a formidable figure; his six-foot-four-inch, 285-pound, middle-aged, still muscular frame was imposing with a military bearing. Even now, a decade after retiring from active duty in the Marine Corps, Kennedy always looked as if he had just stepped out of a poster in a USMC recruiter’s office. His skin was flawless, black as India ink, without blemish, his face ruggedly handsome beneath a perpetual scowl, inscrutable to any who did not know him. For family and friends, he smiled easily and joked often, he never mean mugged a baby, and evenings on their after-dinner strolls through the neighborhood, he often stopped to pet strays or speak to complete strangers’ dogs. His loved ones rarely saw his war-face in their home. He played the stand-up bass, loved the bebop Jazz of Miles Davis, Classic late 20th century Science fiction movies, and fishing.

Helena Elisabeth Jones was the opposite of her husband Kennedy in nearly every aspect of her being. Helena looked every bit the middle-aged suburban hippy that she was at heart. The diminutive, freckle-faced white woman with naturally curly red hair and anime-like, large, bright emerald green eyes smothered her family with affection and protected her son fiercely from the brutality of the outside world. While she shared her husband’s love of Be-Bop Jazz, her favorite musician was Amy Winehouse. She loved the entire filmography of Wes Anderson, her current favorite being ‘The Life Aquatic’, but her one true love was sailing.

In her youth, growing up in the north Texas panhandle, she had cultivated her addiction to opiates that she had controlled for most of her military career until after the twins were born. She had managed her teen addictions while in the military for 19 of 20 years. After giving birth, her body changed, specifically her metabolism, and she started using again after Isaiah’s twin sister Emily died when she was 5, and the family moved to Dallas the following year after leaving the military. After Emily’s funeral, his parents never talked about his sister again, at least not in front of him. Isaiah missed his Emily, but he understood how the pain of her death was almost unbearable to his mother. Over the last 10 years, Helena has been to rehab 3 times. Only returned from her last stay a month ago. Now, the diminutive curly-haired redhead was back at Southern Methodist University teaching biology, where her husband taught engineering.

Weekdays after class, Isaiah would hang out with the neighborhood nerds, skateboarding down the tree-lined shady Swiss Avenue side streets, gliding past century-old two-story brick and wood-framed homes. Trenton, Adira, and Rafael were all outsiders, the neighborhood geek squad. They were all the weird kids operating somewhere on the spectrum who unironically idolized the music, fashion, and cinema of the 1990s. Like the manufactured generations before them, they sensed that they had missed out on the good times. It was as if they saw themselves as being beyond the cult of cool yet nostalgic for an era they never lived through, in the same way the teenagers of that era looked back at the 1960s. This is America, where every generation is marketed rebellion as a fashion statement. Even their angst-fueled anarchy is a prepackaged product to be purchased by the colligate teen demographic, Che Guevara posters, Black Lives Matter tee shirts, and Me Too coffee mugs for only 19.99, even an armchair revolutionary needs capital.

Trenton de Angelo was the token dreadlocked black guy. His mother was an Uptown realtor, and his father was the vice president of the Dallas branch of J. P. Morgan banks;

Adira’s mom Miriam Zimmerman was a federal judge currently on the short list to be appointed to the DC appeals court which put her in line for the Supreme Court, and their other mom was an interior designer for the ultra-rich, Diana Zimmerman-Teller was one of the most sought after interior designers in the nation, Adira the nonbinary kid with the fuchsia mohawk was the best skater of the group and Isaiah’s’ 2nd best friend.

Rafael Jesus Martinez, the chunky man-bun wearing Mexican graffiti artist folks owned a 100-year-old chain of family restaurants that served mediocre Tex-Mex food, but they were one of the first to franchise. He lived with his mom and 3 younger sisters after his dad married Liu Xin, their Au pair, the day after she turned 18, then moved onto his yacht with his new bride in Singapore two years ago.

They all attended catholic school together while the high functioning autistic Isaiah, in the role of the token neurodivergent Mulatto, was homeschooled. After class they typically listened to 90s grunge rock or hip hop on their earbuds while skate boarding around the neighborhood engaged in their never-ending debate concerning the merits of their favorite films and music genres; Stranger Things, Game of Thrones, Donald Glovers -Childish Gambino and ‘Atlanta’, Trenton going so far as to host a YouTube channel dedicated to the filmography of English director, screenwriter, producer, and actor Edgar Howard Wright, where they occasionally joined him as he sat around his parents pool house puffing on Strawberry Mango scented e-sticks, drinking Monster energy drinks, talking music, and movies, like the fanboy that he indeed was. In his imagination, He fancied himself the great undiscovered music and cinema critic of their lost generation. A future internet sensation waiting to take the world by storm with nothing but the power of his charisma, and ego the size of Texas.

They were all intellectual snobs of the highest order, each possessing genius-level IQs that were only half of Isaiah’s. They were a gang of smug, condescending, juvenile, academic elitists. And like most of their generation, their greatest aspiration was to become successful YouTubers and social media influencers. Three years ago, fronted by Aeon Gabriella Zavala as their lead vocalist, they formed a short-lived punk rock band called ‘Death Pixel’, sadly they broke up after recording only one album and making a single music video that got them in trouble with their lead singers’ parents as well as the local police. The offending video has long since been removed from YouTube, and anyone who downloaded it has scrubbed it from their hard drives after learning the band’s lead singer, Aeon, was only thirteen when the video was recorded.

After the lawyers were finished, they all had their juvenile records sealed, agreeing to dissolve the band and never perform the offensive song again, even without the simulated strap-on sex performance by Aeon. The world will never again get to witness the anarchic punk grandeur that was ‘Death Pixels’ ‘Full Penetration Piggy’ it wasn’t the lyrics about stimulating the policeman’s prostate anally that they found so offensive, although they hated them also, but the sight of a teenage girl wearing and 18-inch black latex horse cock in full bondage gear black and crimson rubber corset and strategically torn fishnets sodomizing a ball gagged blowup doll dressed as a police officer. Maybe it was the drummer Adira’s BLM (Black Lives Matter) T-shirt.

When they were really bored, they tagged public spaces with their calling card being BoJack Horseman, who has been usurped by Rick & Morty crashing a flying saucer, with his Mandela-effect catch phrase “Wubba-lubba-dub-dub!” scrawled beneath their collective mascot. They kept Sharpies on them at all times and decorated their skateboards, backpacks, as well as public spaces. But mostly they just skateboarded around the neighborhood listening to music on their iPods. Everyone rode street and double kick boards designed for doing stunts and tricks, except Isaiah, his double drop longboard made him the weirdo amongst weirdos because he skated exclusively on a twin-tipped longboard. He used it like an urban surfboard, to slalom gently down the streets, gliding from one side of the street to the other. He liked it because it reminded him of what it felt like to sail. So, he does no grinding, or kick flips, or sack taps. He was happiest on a gentle slope, but he did enjoy the speed and rush of a steep hill. When he wasn’t hanging out skating, he was at Aeon’s house studying, getting his hair done, doing Aeon’s hair, or swimming.

The Zavala’s pool was nearly Olympic-sized, and he practically lived in it. Since they were homeschooled, they were outcasts squared. Over the years, growing up and being schooled together, their closeness evolved organically into a friendship, and that friendship over time evolved into best friends.

It was the afro puffs, cat eyeglasses wearing Aeon’s idea that they become blood brother and sisters when they were seven, he let her slice into his palm with a filet knife after she cut her own palm open, then they shook bloody hands consummating the ceremony. Of course, both their parents freaked out when they learned what they had done; they all knew whose idea this had to be, still, they both got grounded for that one for a week. That would be the blueprint of their friendship; he was by nature an introvert, and she was not. He had a total of four friends, including her, while she had dozens of friends and was the most popular girl in the neighborhood by the time she was only 13. She resented being homeschooled because she wanted to be captain of the cheerleading team.

Aeon had an innate understanding of others needs and was deeply empathetic by nature, she was an information broker, an entertainer, a sommelier of fine people, a guardian of gossip, a trusted confidant, a human cocktail artiste, a barista of human souls who mixed a group of people to a frothy perfection. This was a skill that Isaiah lacked completely. Aeon, like his mother, was very protective of Isaiah; she was the emotional brains of the outfit. They would repeat the blood ritual when they exchanged vows twenty years later, using his riggers’ knife at their wedding. Bringing tears to the eyes of their parents, while horrifying the rest of the wedding party. The priest fainted.

“Je broie du Noir”

“(Back to Black)”

The letters Isaiah typed on his vintage crimson-hued Olivetti Valentine, 1969 standard, to his mom and dad documented the minutiae of his day-to-day life at sea aboard the Exodus. In his letters, he laughed and cried, cursed the fickle wind and foul weather, and thanked the gods of the seven seas. He cursed Jesus and praised Cthulhu, depending on the wind and the waves and the current. He wrote to them of his good days fishing and of the bad days, becalmed, the prop fouled on the remnants of an old fishing net held afloat with discarded plastic jugs. He talked to them as if he had never left home and did not miss them with every fiber of his being. He confessed that there were days when he was ready to give up, to surrender to the sea, but that he would rather sink to the bottom than return home a failure.

He had no filter and told them of his love for his new friends in foreign ports. He stained the pages with tears as he wrote of loneliness and homesickness, the emptiness of existence, while staring at the stars over the sea, hating himself and his pride. And his ego. He apologized for his fear and his weakness, and he swore an oath to try to come home alive and promised he would not let the sea devour him and that, like a good Spartan, he would return with his shield or on it. That night, his mother would go to confession for the first time in over 15 years, fall to her knees and pray to a god she knew didn’t exist to protect the life of her only son. Emily was too much; she could not lose another child to the sea. To love a child is to learn humility.

Mostly, he wrote so they wouldn’t worry too much; he mailed his letters whenever he hit land. There were the fishermen on an old shrimp boat off the coast of Louisiana, a friendly old veterinarian and good Samaritan in Key West, a retired soldier in Havana, and on one occasion, he used a drone to hand the letters off to sailors aboard a passing Japanese freighter in the Arabian Sea. Each evening before going to sleep and each morning when he awoke, he sent a DM to his family with his ship’s longitude and latitude in any case, his mother and father were aware of where he was as his travels progressed, with the first letters being mailed from Galveston the day he set sail. He left the letter in the mailbox at the harbor master’s office, and it was picked up the next day. It would take a week for the letter to reach his parents’.

In the years that followed, these letters written to his family and friends during that first solo sojourn would be gathered together and stored, first at the DeGolyer Library on the campus of SMU. Several decades later, they would make their way to the Smithsonian where the collection was digitally scanned before being returned to Isaiah Jones then living in Ghana in his late 80s, who then turned the letters and paintings over to the curators to be added to the collection at the Port Garvey Museum of African Arts and Letters where they remain, next to his mariners compass, sextant, chromometer, and a vintage scarlet Olivetti 1969 Valentine manual typewriter as a part of the museum’s permanent exhibition.

Over the years, growing up in landlocked Dallas, Isaiah had managed to make several virtual friends in the sailing community by asking questions and chatting occasionally online. A few were people he had only met online; others were friends he and Aeon made over the summer breaks, sailing with their parents when they cruised the family’s catamaran around the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico. Others were like him, just kids who liked to sail. The lucky ones were living on boats with their parents as they sailed around the world. He envied them most of all. Others were obsessive-compulsive nautical nerds who geeked out over all things to do with sailing. Isaiah first learned to sail from his mother in the cool cerulean waters of the Mediterranean just off the coast of Sicily near the naval air base where he was born.

By age six, when his parents retired from the military and moved to Dallas, Isaiah was already a competent sailor in the Lagoon 42 charter catamaran sailboat his mom rented whenever she was off duty. In Dallas they often spent weekends in rented dinghies sailing around White Rock; the tiny manmade Lake in the middle of the city off Northwest highway, while his father fished from the rocky spillway or beneath the shade of a mesquite tree on the shore, all the while keeping a watchful eye on his wife and son as they glided across the lake powered by the warm spring breeze.

Isaiah learned to fish from his father, and how to make and use a crossbow from his mother, and how to bow hunt rabbits, deer, and wild boar on Granny Culpepper’s ranch in the Texas panhandle. His parents were both 33 years old when he and his twin sister Emily were born in the Mediterranean at the Naval Air Station Sigonella in eastern Sicily on his mother’s birthday, May 10th, 2005. Isaiah’s parents were now, in the year 2020, both adjunct (part-time) professors at Southern Methodist University.

At age 38, both retired from military service after serving 20 years of active duty. Isaiah lived in the same two-story wood-framed house on the tree-lined, shaded streets of East Dallas in the Lower Greenville, Lakewood area of Dallas for the last 10 years. He still remembered his childhood growing up in Sicily on Sigonella, the Naval Air Station (NAS) for six years prior to his parents’ retirement from the armed forces. He always missed the living near the sea, the Mediterranean weather, taking turns at the helm with his sister Emily sitting on his mother’s lap, his hands on the wheel as if he were actually steering, his arms outstretched, feeling the resonance of the water going by the twin rudders. The sun warm on his skin as the rented catamaran danced with the wind, skipping over the white capped waves.

Aeon was in one of her moods today. Isaiah knew something was on her mind and had been on it for several months now. The last time she was this weird was just before she broke his arm sparring when they were 11. Aeon had a mean streak most people never saw, but it was always there, dancing in the shadows of her persona. She wasn’t as strong as Isaiah, who, now at six feet two inches and weighing 237 lbs, could already bench 300 lbs of free weights. But she had a low center of gravity, was faster, and meaner. They both knew Aeon had always been the better fighter; she got off on the violence. As far as Isaiah was concerned, it was just physical training, a routine part of their studies, and he liked routine as much as he loved counting his strikes.

They debated the merit of film adaptations of their favorite novels with Aeon disapproving of the casting of the lead in F. X. Tooles ‘Million Dollar Baby’ her favorite novel, to Hillary Swank she believed she was just too small but otherwise great, while Isaiah loving the movies casting but understanding how she felt about casting actors too small or the wrong age in roles. He had read his father’s collection of black superhero comics, the entire first run of the Milestone universe titles in mint condition, the wall covering poster was framed and hung in the garage turned workshop, and Heavy Metal Magazines and assorted graphic novels illustrated by European and Latin American artists like Mobius.

He was disappointed when Nolan decided to have Batman kill people when the subtext of his entire ethos as a vigilante is Batman does not kill, he is not a craven chickenshit cop, he will not murder you or your dog, he is not a coward he does not carry a gun to fight crime. You might walk with a limp, or never play the piano again, or speak with a speech impediment, but you live. It was intellectually dishonest, lazy writing to have him murdering people with no consequence; that is the difference between the Punisher and Batman, one kills, the other does not. He wasn’t a fanboy, but he felt they should have stayed closer to Frank Miller’s interpretation of the character, the way they did when they adapted ‘Sin City’ and ‘300’ for the big screen.

Having grown up watching reruns of the Boondocks both agreed that Regina King was killing it again with her performance in ‘the Watchmen’, Jordan Peele proved his genius with ‘Get Out and ‘Us’, Chiwetel Ejiofor portrayal of Faraday in ‘the Man Who Fell to Earth’ was brilliant and eerily similar personality to Isaiah’s, and the entire ensemble cast of ‘Lovecraft Country’ blew their minds with every episode more delightfully twisted than the last. ‘Euphoria’ seemed like a documentary at times, and they, like the rest of the world, were in love with Zendaya.

By the time they were 12, both had developed major crushes on real-life MMA fighters Rhonda Rousey, Lucia Frederica Rijker, and Stamp Fairtex, agreeing that women fighters were just the sexiest beasts in the world. They would both scream Eww!! Whenever they watched an old video of Rousey breaking another opponent’s arm, then they would hit rewind and watch it again and again. They both confessed that they had Ronda in their masturbation montages, but Aeon would never confess that she orgasms every time the bone breaks.

“I thought you didn’t like blondes?”

“I don’t, but every time I think about her breaking another fighter’s arm, my nipples turn into two little brown diamonds”. He chuckled.

You are sick, no judgment, Aeon agreed, I have to sleep in the wet spot if I think about that while I’m rubbing one out, she confessed, her head lying on his chest listening to his breath and heartbeat as they talked. The late-night breeze stirred warm air through the leaves of the Magnolia tree in the center of the back yard just beyond the pool. The star’s light reflected in his mother’s eyes. She was afraid to say what she was really thinking, so she said something stupid to change the subject. Issiah, are you still a virgin?

Yeah, he scoffed, come on, if I wasn’t, you would be like the 3rd person to know. Is it that obvious? Isaiah laughed.

I was just curious. Aeon replied nonchalantly.

What about you, are you still a virgin technically?

Yep, for the moment. She grinned.

For the moment?! Isaiah repeated, eyeing her curiously.

I’m going to miss you when you leave for Galveston next month. She said as her eyes swelled with tears.

I’m gonna miss you too Boo. He hugged her, then absent-mindedly began to twirl a lock of her hair around a finger, You want me to do your hair? he asked gently.

You see, Aeon exclaimed, it’s this, this is why I’m gonna miss you. You the only other person, other than our parents, that gets doing hair is you.

Trenton does hair, he offered in consolation.

Yeah, but he’s on your team.

I just want you to be happy.

I’ve known you most of my life, she sighed, and I’ve known the whole time this day would come, but I didn’t expect it to mess me up like this.

I’ll only be gone for six or seven months round trip, Isaiah offered. By this time next year, I should be back. He said, thinking out loud, seeking to console her.

I know, she said, exacerbated, it’s just that I’ve been crying every day for the last three months whenever I think about you not being here.

Is that what’s been bothering you?

Yeah, I’m worried about you, this stupid pandemic, starting college in the fall, moving to San Diego, the Nazi politicians in Washington, and the locals they incite and inspire. When you started college, it wasn’t so bad, you were still here just across town, a few miles away during class, I saw you every day, and we still talked and hung out, but now everyone will be gone…I just want to spend more time with you before you go to Africa.

Then come with me to Galveston for the summer. I’ll be busy working all day and night, you’ll get the pleasure of helping me prepare the boat for the voyage, but…. Aeon threw her arms around his neck and kissed Isaiah; as the shock of it wore off, he kissed her back.

Wow, he stammered, that was nice.

Nice?! she said combatively.

No, I mean it was really nice, I just wasn’t expecting it.

“You really don’t have a clue, do you?” she said, smiling seductively at her friend.

About what?

Exactly, and that’s what I love about you, she kissed him again.

I don’t get it?

Carroll Gallegher said she felt your junk when you guys were making out at Kevin Wiesmann’s birthday party, and she said you were the best kisser. Marcia Floures said you were the only guy she ever gagged on.

Wait a minute, how do you know all about who I dated and made out with? I don’t discuss the details of my dating even with you.

Girls talk, besides, I used to date Carroll after the two of you broke up last summer, remember? And Marcia is my BFF since we first moved down here, and occasional friends with benefits. Aeon said, using her mother’s Dominican accent to make him laugh.

Happy birthday, baby boy.

It’s not my birthday. He said.

It’s after midnight, so yes, it is now officially your birthday. So, she said with an exaggerated enthusiasm she used to mask her feelings. You’re really going to do it, huh?

Yeah, Isaiah replied matter-of-factly, I’ll be at sea this winter. After the hurricane season in the Caribbean ends. That’ll give me six months to prepare the boat and gather provisions. They lay on the lounger by the pool in her backyard, her head resting on his chest as they spoke.

Promise you’ll write to me when you get to the Motherland.

I promise.

You know that technically, you’re one of those creepy college guys who kiss innocent high school girls now.

We’re the same age, woman? Isaiah stated flatly.

Yeah, but you have already finished college, and I just graduated high school this year. So, you are officially a totally perverted frat Bro that swaps spit with innocent high school girls. Aeon said, giggling as Nala, one of her family’s four cats, climbed onto the lounger and curled up next to them on the cushion. Aeon absentmindedly caressed the orange kitten as she spoke.

I’m going to miss us, ya know.

Yeah, I know laughed Isaiah.

Bastard! She laughed as she gently play punched his belly. They woke up early as the sun began to rise; it was Saturday. After they showered, they headed downstairs to the kitchen. He grabbed their drinks from the fridge and put the bottles of water in her backpack while Aeon toasted blueberry muffins in the toaster oven. Isaiah ran next door to his house to get the dogs. They both were fond of their morning walks downtown to the farmer’s market. He wolfed down a banana in three big bites while Aeon nibbled on a plum as they shopped, the juices running down her hand and chin. Isaiah leaned in and licked her chin.

Ewwww, I have paper towels, but thank you. She said, smiling as they continued to shop for more fruit to take back home for breakfast. Peaches and oranges, and today she had a craving for melons as a perfectly ripe cantaloupe caught her eye, so it too went into the purple nylon net bag they always used for shopping here. As she took a bite of the sample slice from the tray next to the display. Isaiah watered the dogs using the hoses at the edge of the farmers market’s shaded green canvas awnings before they headed back home. It was only a few miles east of their neighborhood.

Aeon gazed at the gangly boy as they walked, the glass and steel towers of downtown reflecting the early morning light, disappeared behind the trees as each holding the leash of one of the Jones’ large black dogs. He was about to take off on a journey to Africa, but she knew he wasn’t just going to Africa, he was going to sea. She knew you could go to Ghana and return in months, but the sea would not give him up once she had him in her deepest waters, and she did not want to lose him. They walked along the cracked concrete sidewalks in a comfortable silence, each knowing this marked the end of their childhood and the beginning of something beautiful.

[11] Note: Francis Kwame Nkrumah was a Ghanaian politician, political theorist, and revolutionary. He served as Prime Minister of the Gold Coast from 1952 until 1957, when it gained independence from Britain. He was then the first Prime Minister and then the President of Ghana, from 1957 until 1966. Wikipedia

[12] note Franz Fanon

About the author:

JD Cloudy’s poetry has disappeared in the literary journals: Fatfizz, Mad Swirl, Texas Beat Anthology, Danse Macabre, Du Jour, and Death List Five. He has won no literary awards, entered no slam competitions, and never completed college. He lives to write in Dallas, Texas.