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February 25, 2005
Dead Calm
Four hundred and 30 miles out when the gale started blowing. The small sloop was blown off course, out past the gulf. The blow was too strong for too long, I couldn't hold her. Sitting here now, I miss that struggle. She sits, black hull in still flat waters. Her tan sails hang limp, useless except for visual relief from the endless blue of sea and sky. Dead calm.Fresh water is very low. I almost succumbed to a cup of sea water yesterday. Not desperate yet, but I must resist at all cost. It may seem to quench thirst, but it is delerious poison. It does not replenish. Each morning's dew is barely sustaining. But the stillness of the blue is so inviting.
This boat becomes very restrictive when out on the ocean alone and idle. When you are trapped in dead calm, sooner or later, rain clouds will come blowing their wet breath over the horizon. But in the waiting, it becomes a prison cell, locked in by endless unreachable horizon. And the blue calm becomes more inviting, as if it could quench my dry thirsty mind.
I should pray for wind and rain. Commune with the flesh and blood of a fish. But no, it seems like there haven't been fish out here for thousands of years now. Man's doing. Besides, I have no need for a crucifix to tell me I bear my own cross. Perhaps there still are schools, out of sight, down a bit deeper than the sun's rays penetrate. Maybe there is sustenance there in the depths. The dead canvas draped on the mast rigging is all I see. Maybe the key is behind my own blue eyes. Again the blue invites me.
An old rope hammock is a good way to past the time, swaying myself in the cool shade of the drooping mainsail. The creaking cry of the rope keeps a slow rythm, lulling me. Its comfortable without the constant pitching from the waves and the salt water spray that burns my eyes. Thats not true, I'm withering away out here. My sea-legs waste with atrophy, in desparate need of movement, exercise. My heart needs to beat this thick blood. Slowly, each day, death comes closer. I should swim. But I know there are some big dark shadows lurking around down there. They seem to follow the boat. And I don't want to move. The hammock is my straight jacket. Something so inviting, and so full of resistance. Thirsty now.
Where is the wind? Just a gentle breeze to fill the canvas. A brush stroke pointing home. Too much damn time out here. Too much time. Too thirsty. Too dry.
I have a mask and a spear somwhere under the berth. I can dive in and look around a bit. Maybe find some fish. Grab the rudder to stay close to the boat and kick, get some blood into my legs while gazing into the deep invitation.
Tomorrow. Tonight I will listen to the unknown sounds that sing to me from below, that echo off the wooden planks, and send my mind reverberating promises of refreshing rain. Let it wash away the encrusted salt, so I can see clearly back into blue, and sail on again, with a fresh wind - the breath of life, to distant, destined shores where I was born. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow...
~~~
Posted by Ocean at February 25, 2005 04:11 AM