calm waters

I always imagined myself on a boat.

I don’t know what draws me to water, the sea, but I suppose it’s one of the greatest mysteries we know. The sound of it is soothing, reminding us of our beginnings, all sounds are muffled and the loudest one is your own, gently wrapped into waves and currents like a womb. You sound far away and close at the same time, and you focus on the strange pops of air bubbles escaping your lips. Every thought is tucked into a blanket of cotton, comfortably protected. I emerge to the surface, and climb back onto the deck, and as the sun warms my skin the waves rock me into deep quiet sleep, quietly whispering lullabies from the depths below.

Then at the same time, it holds so much power, a roaring loud force, unstoppable to anything in its way. Unforgiving and brutal, it has no regard for your insignificant existence compared to everything else. It can tear you apart, and that feels familiar too. It’s the perfect analogy of life, and it is life.

Every living thing the water holds has become weathered, strong and resilient. I’ve spent hours studying the alien beings I’ve found below the surface. I went swimming among large schools of exotic fish in Bali, and I was terrified. I was an outsider in their world, and they knew every part of their surroundings. I knew nothing. I felt humble, and so out of place. A visitor in their world, trying to blend in, and they found me out. They brushed against my legs, making fun of my frail skin and insufficient physique. I wanted to be like them. Like a fish out of water, they say. Like a human in the ocean would be just as good.

So I imagine myself out there, on a boat. I have a dog named Jack, and he has a tiny red scarf and he loves swimming. We travel the world together, just the two of us. We swim and we sleep, we get our asses kicked by the rough storms and we bathe in the sun in calm waters. But you always said I couldn’t make it out there on my own.