pleased precariously

The captain is one salty dog. A massive, stern looking man, eyes squinting into the afternoon sun, salt and pepper stubble, and a greasy, matted ponytail. He fixes me in his gaze, this impertinent boy who has all but demanded a job on his ship, and asks what I’ve ever given of myself to the sea.

I look straight back at him, fighting to keep my nerves under control, and say “nothing.” He smiles as broad as his thick frame and says “well then, be here before dawn tomorrow. She’ll see what you have and take what she wants, won’t she? Hah!” A clap of a giant hand on my shoulder and he’s off down the dock, calling out orders as he walks.

It took me more than a moment to realize I’d gotten what I wanted. There was a definite lightness in my step on my way up the hill from the harbor to my home. Now I just had to worry about what, if anything, I was going to tell my mother.

I didn’t take to the sea as quickly as others. It took years before I was comfortable losing sight of land, but it happened to me eventually. Just like it does everyone else.

I never learned the trick of navigation, never learned to read charts, never learned how to tell if I’d run aground on the reef ahead, never learned to read the stars. I just pushed off from the small dock, hoisted my sails, and let the salty breeze take me where it would.

I invariably ended up battered on some island shore, clinging to bits and pieces of my former life, the few articles of clothing and other possessions that survived the wreck and drifted on the currents with me littered around the rocks and sand. I sat on the beach long days and nights, alone, and lit signal fires.

I gathered scraps of wood from the wreckage, and used them along with felled palms and driftwood to fashion a raft. I pushed off from the hot sand and drifted past the aquamarine, into the deeper hues. It was my own fault for ending up that way. I couldn’t fault the sea, and I couldn’t stay away.

Once a passing ship saw the smoke from my fire, anchored, and sent a small party to investigate. They walked slowly (attributable both to caution and sea legs) up to me, and asked me questions in a language I’d never heard. “I want to go home,” I replied, again and again. The tone, and maybe the pleading look on my face, were enough. They gave me water and food. I did what work I could for them. I pointed out my country on their captain’s map, and some months later I was returned home.

In bars sturdier sailors regaled the others with stories of their bravery and luck, surviving storms or encounters with pirates. My tales in comparison were painfully boring, never giving rise to a hearty laugh or a clap on the back. I became known as the quiet one who told the same story over and over, just in different ways. Noone ever asked me to tell them, because they always ended the same way.

One shipwreck was particularly bad. I was marooned on a lifeless island for nearly 3 years. How I survived isn’t clear to me. I don’t remember great spans of time from that period. But survived I did. It took the better part of a year to fashion a raft that was strong enough to survive the shore break.

….