I’m on a boat. In a sea. Or is it an ocean? It stretches far enough. I don’t know.
I was given a boat when I was born. Everyone gets one. That’s the life on the Island – a tiny island floating in the vast ocean. At least that’s what I’ve been told. Who knows?
When I was growing up, I loved to row. Eatin, sleepin, rowin. That‘s how we roll. From morning to night, you rowed. You ate and you rowed. You slept and you rowed. You lived and you rowed… Now, you would think, that if one rowed all their life, they would be good at it. However, as I sat in the Sea, I started questioning that. Everyone around me was rowing. Violently.
The word to notice here is sat. I’m in my boat. Sitting, not rowing. Not rowing right now. Haven’t rowed in a while. The breeze is good, it takes me forward, gently. And when there’s no wind, I work. I fish, I row, I look at the stars and I listen to the birds. At this point in the journey, you don’t see other humans anymore. You are in the sea, on your own. Your goal? Finding land.
You train all your life for this. You train all your life to row, to leave your home, to go beyond, find new land. Why? Don’t ask me. I don’t make the rules. I’m just tossed into the Sea at the whims of the old Gods who don’t even exist anymore. I don’t even like water!
Anyway, let’s get back. I rowed. Not to find land, not because I worshipped the old Gods, not to please the new ones… not because I loved to row, and surely I don’t love the deep azure. It terrified me. And it does, even now. When you love the water, you learn to swim. When you’re petrified of it, you learn to row.
I hoped if I could row faster, I could get to the Other Side sooner. Away from the water and away from the rocking. Sea sickness is real (no one around me seemed to get sick). I wondered if it was in my head. It had to be, because it made me dizzy. Overwhelmed. Frustrated. Tired. I rowed aggressively, I rowed smooth. I rowed mornings and I rowed nights. I rowed enough to outpace the fright. At least that was the plan.
For someone who hated the waters, I rowed well. That wasn’t of any help. On my island, there was a saying. “The more you do it, the more you’ll love it”. Today, it’s called Exposure Therapy… I loved rowing. I loved every second on the water as long as I forgot the waves. And the only way to forget the waves was to focus on rowing. And I loved rowing.
I rowed hard. I rowed fast. I was so good, I was the best of my class. Adventurous and aggressive – that’s what people thought. I was always looking for the next new technique to beat the leaderboard chart. I learnt to read the winds. I talked to the birds (overheard would be a better word since they never seemed to respond) and along with the birds, saw the clouds drift apart. I wondered where they went and what they meant. I could smell an oncoming storm. I could dance with the rain — with such dexterity that the boat I rowed was the body I owned and the storm that chased took me for a ride.
I worked hard.
Hard work is rewarded with more hard work. Humanity’s Hope. That’s what we were called. People who rowed to find new lands. Kids on Quests would’ve been the righter word. I stand my ground with that. At least I wanted to be on the ground. However, we don’t have a say. We were sent out. Sent out too soon.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry enough. In hindsight, I should’ve cried more.
I see people rowing their boats around me. Their distant figures look like ants, like specks floating in your sight — when you look at it, it moves. When you move your eyes, it moves again, moving across the eternal blue stretched against the sky. My team was rowing, in different directions from the Island — like emanating starlight. I wasn’t told about that. That wasn’t part of my plan. They were my family.
When we started, we started together. We rowed together, ate together and sang together. We looked at the maps together and we charted the stars together. We made clothes from the seaweed moss and belts out of fish skin leather. We quarrelled over style. We mocked the ones talking to the fish (I kept mine a secret) and pulled back the ones looking into the waters. Don’t stare at the sea too long. That was one piece of advice everyone took to heart. I never knew why. We caught the drifting logs (I wonder where they come from) and scared the perching birds (they were curious about us too!). We fought for our fish and raged for our speed. We were loud and proud. We were young.
The days were tough and the nights were calm. Except on the full moon — we struggled to see where we had to go. She was blinding the darkness. Everyone pulled out their log book with the maps. Everyone turned the pages. Everything was perfect. We were on track. A sudden breeze flickered our pages. That was the moment I knew I was dumb. Dumbfounded. Everyone knew that we had to go in different directions someday. Everyone was an Explorer. I wasn’t Everyone.
The Moon showed me no mercy that night. I couldn’t sleep. The day of departure was soon.
It wasn’t as drastic as I thought. One by one, they turned. A few degrees to the east, a few degrees to the west. We were fast but we weren’t at our best. The sea calms down once you row far enough. The wind blows gently across the sails. Far enough, and you can let her do what she does best — guiding sailors. We still rowed occasionally. We rowed to see who still had it — to see who still was. Rowing was our parting gift to others — an acknowledgement of our comradery.
My team left with a gust of energy. The Wind must have possessed them. Now, the days got quiet too. I didn’t like it. I could feel the sea clapping at me, the deck dancing with the Wind, the salty breeze covering my skin, the swimming fish bubbling to the surface and the beaked birds diving right in. I didn’t like it. I felt alone. I was truly alone.
I could still see my team across the sea (I can see them now too occasionally) but I couldn’t hear them anymore. At night, when the Darkness approached, I looked at the Moon. She looked splendid, as usual. Slowly, I looked at her reflection in the sea, pulsating with the waves. It was mesmerizing. The moonlight was broken into pieces, sizzling on the waves, bouncing back and forth in the wind. I looked at the Moon, I looked at the waves. Somewhere along the nightly ritual, the Sea invited herself. Don’t stare at the Sea for she’ll stare back at you.
“I can‘t see the Sea, I can only see myself!”, I would think whenever I looked at her. I saw my reflection in the night until I fell asleep. The only real concern was falling into the sea. Someone with a fear of the waters would never get into such a precarious position. I was too careful to fall. At least that’s what I thought. I tied my leg to the mast like I was avoiding a siren’s call. I made the right call. That one night, I almost took the fall.
The sea doesn’t stare at you, it stares right into you.
I don’t remember much of that day — I was too tired and slept too much. I remember stars caressing the Sea on the Moonless night. I remember being unable to differentiate up from down (thank you sea sickness). I remember missing the Moon, missing my Mom and missing my Mates. I remember the rough touch of the rope on my legs, extending taut from the mast. I remember the dolphin whistle in the distance. But I don’t remember what I heard.
I woke up tired ever since. I woke up with the Sun which lulled me awake every morning. Birds I made friends with (it was one-sided, okay?) cawed for fish I was too stingy to share (I caved in once in a while). I enjoyed the breeze even though I hated the smell. I rocked my boat along with the waves. I cooked and I sewed and counted days every noon. I saw my crew. I waved at them. Except, one day, they didn’t wave back.
I wondered if they didn’t see me. I could see them. Ant-sized but still visible. Maybe not so much on cloudy days when the Earth vanished into the skies. No more waving back and forth, no more racing fast and hard. I let the genteel Wind take me to a place I could call home. The Wind always helped me on the days I was too tired to row. Now, I let it take the reins again.
I don’t row much anymore — it’s too tiring. My team — on the other hand — has been rowing too much. We were never told there was too much. Too much was always just enough. You always rowed just enough. But this was way too much to be just enough. They rowed like they had found Land. I was ecstatic. I looked around — maybe they saw something in the corner of their world. I was told — on the waters of course — that no matter what happens, we couldn’t divert from the chartered path. I stuck to the word. I just looked with curiosity, occasionally waving at them in case they noticed. Some did, some didn’t. But everyone kept rowing maniacally.
Ever since, I watch the sailors row now and then. I don’t know if they see land. I don’t see any. I don’t know why they row so hard. So fast. I don’t remember why I rowed so hard, so fast. I don’t hate the Sea anymore. She must have cast a spell on me. Finding Land doesn’t feel enchanting anymore. I must have gotten used to this — exposure therapy. The old man was right. I never exposed myself to the unending Abyss, the domain of the Sea and the Wind, the Sun, the Moon and the Stars, and the unreaching Land. I ne‘er asked why others rowed. Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow. I know they’ll row. It’s too late to ask.
I sit on the still seas, singing “row, row, row your boat…”, staring into the horizon as the Sun sinks in. It’s almost time to sleep. And it’s gotten quiet. It always is. Lying down, I finish, “… life is but a dream~” as I cover myself in the blanket. Stars start popping up in the sky. Migratory birds glide across the sunset like shooting stars, slowly vanishing into the horizon. How do they fly that far? Do they find the Chosen Land?