Nothing much happened at the edge of his desperation. Nothing at all. It was the beginning of the end. Now Captain Syd is sitting in a trunk, in the middle of the sea, surrounded by ten whisky bottles and the immensity of the ocean. Mechanically chewing tobacco, his eyes are fixed on the bottom of the sea. He tries to find answers in the dark blue water, whilst suffering from the power of delirium provoked by years of battles that only he can count.
In the sea, like in the dessert, mirages come easily. Illusions grow inside the minds of the downhearted. Just like the cow that swims incessantly around his trunk, a song is stuck in Captain Syd´s head; Serge Gainsbourg’s Je T’aime Moi Non Plus sounds again and again in the profound well of his emptiness. It's at this point when he realizes that his deeds, without any proof, are like the cow.
Sometime in the past, Captain Syd had another conviction. He was sure that to fight tooth-and-nail would give a dignity that refutes any failure. That a man can be destroyed, but never defeated. Captain Syd´s faith was fed by dreams and delusions of grandeur. Winning was a state of mind. And losing seemed to be just another way of tasting success.
But each battle always had the same ending: his prey never became prey. Like the day he challenged a giant octopus. He surfed along its long tentacles and managed to stab its heart. But whilst he was beginning to taste the sweetness of his victory, he was not aware of the fact that the eight-footed creature possesed three hearts. And he was only left with its shadow as it disappeared in the cynical sea waters.
A long list of deeds, lost in memory, is what gives shape to the courage of Captain Syd. On another day, in his tiny boat, he stood in front of a whale with only a harpoon in his hands, and the certainty of the anger of a turbulent mind. For a moment he felt that it was time to go back, to raise his hands, and bow his head. But he didn’t.
He finally lost an arm, but not the chance of a victory. However, the whale was quickly devoured by a bunch of hungry sharks. And one more time, he saw the evidence of a battle disappear in the red water. Call it bad luck, call it marine misfortune. But the truth is that battle after battle, effort after effort, defeat after defeat, every proof failed to materialize. And the proof that is never shown is the difference between truth and myth, between the forgotten and the remembered. Whilst he looks at the bottom of the sea, he questions if any of this ever happened, whether it was nothing much, or nothing at all.