I slept in until 7 today… well done circadian rhythm. Or something. Figured with a few hours until church, I may as well write. I usually do all my writing at night, so this may turn out disastrous. This story does not carry my sentiment – I love, love, love fall and it’s colors. And I lovelovelove the sea and it’s briny smell and everything. I just copied this over from journal into virtual, with very little editing. I do know that it needs it. Hopefully the typos are not miserable, and that you soon sea the puns not abysmal (hahaha – too funny). I think I stretched every single description in this story for the sake of using lousy oceanic diction. In due course, this story may be a shipwreck. (I so desperately wanted to say on the last one, "just wait, there's moore", but that was a stretch, even for me). Neither of the titles above refer to this story which has but a pending title. Besides, I cheated with the last line, so.... maybe I should just title it: "young man and the sea" and make another reference.
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If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
He hated fall. Autumn leaves crisped, browned, and sputtered their way to the ground like tiny fires in red, gold, and umber; summer breezes gained an edge, a chilling blade piercing to the bones, whispers of the coming cold, and the oceans frothed and grayed. He scarcely noticed this, for fall meant not the dance of leaves, not the songs of breeze, not, even, the festivities of thankfulness and harvest, but the call of loneliness, the sea summons.
His vessel sat at dock, readied for its grand venture over the deeps, a journey that lasted until mid-spring. The bay's gentle waves rocked against the harbor, and his ship gently rolled with each crest and trough. Another six months of life, wasted on the great empty expanse of brine, an emptiness propagated by his crew's industrious silence. A death of vacancy.
It was his last night in port, and he felt wrecked, as though a finality loomed overhead, and knowing its proximity, he could do nothing, brought low by its burden. His crew sweated and strained, checking the rigging and oils, lugging supplies aboard and examining for leaks. They didn't need him now; he could leave them be. And what if... what if he left and never came back? He turned, facing the harbor-town. He took a few steps towards the bar before stopping, realizing he never drank anyway - another reason he made a poor sailor - and turned towards the classical music lounge. At least there, though alcohol was still prevalent, the music would soothe his sorrowed nerves.
"Better be on time tomorrow morn, boss!" his workers called behind him.
"Or we'll drag your sorry corpse back aboard!" they catcalled, hollering and whooping.
"See ya in the morn, Cap'n! Whether ya like it er not!"
He cringed, but kept walking, deeper, deeper into the swells of town. Towards the rear of town lay the music lounge, a strangely shaped structure eerily reminiscent of stormy waves. Pushing open the swivel doors, he entered into the music lounge. It was different here, a place where he might forget the other world, his world. Tall stools surrounded tables in the room's center, and a single, uninterrupted couch lined the wall around the room's circumference, only stopping near the bar and stage ends of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, without any square angels, and the couch against the walls bucked and rolled like waves. It was not a pleasant metaphor.
A bone chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the hall with a romanticized light, golden warm. The cedar planks of the floor were seamless, and tip-tepped with each step as he crossed the room towards the rear where a curtained off section provided a little privacy, a little solitude. It was early still, not yet eventide, and the lounge resounded with an echoing quiet, a patience. The barkeep rubbed cloth across the bar, keeping clean what already sparkled.
Several hours, he sat, staring into space between he and the door, waiting for an end, or a beginning. He was an island unto himself, and as patrons filtered in, he scarcely noticed, so isolated was he. At evening bell, his reverie was broken by a voice, sweet and deeply resonant.
“Such a blue face, anchored in sorrow. Would you not care more for a merry time?”
He looked up slowly, as though dragging his eyes through heavy water. “What? What did you say?”
She smiled, and he saw her for the first time, teeth as pearls, eyes deep and blue as the tropical seas in summertime, her tresses collapsing in gentle waves about her slender neck. “May I give you company, this eventide, gentle sir?” She sat without awaiting an answer, smoothing her cerulean skirts and tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
“Shall we dance?” she asked, and he noticed at once the strings playing, a slow violin movement swelling and gentle.
His eyes widened. “But milady, I know not even your name.”
“Maria,” she replied, extending her slender hand.
She propelled him onto the floor, gliding betwixt vague outlines of people. And they danced, and danced, slow as the tides, fast as time, sailing through the night. He forgot tomorrow, forgot his dawn voyage, forgot, even, his anger at the ocean wide. As the last of the customers tipped their hats and slipped out under the stars, he gazed into her eyes, still, an ocean of joy specked with golden stars. “Maria, will you grant me one more dance?”
And one more time, they spun round, touches light and lovely.
When, at last, they slowed their dance and drifted onto silver streets of moonlight, arm in arm, the midnight tides were long since gone. A brisk breeze bore out to sea from the hills above, and long wispy clouds veiled portions of the sky – cirrus clouds at night. Her face was flushed with breathless excitement, her eyes sparkling as starlight reflections as they found her home. Unwilling to say goodbye, they sat on the steps outside her home, whispering sweet nothings.
Hours passed, and a hint of color tinted the skyline, as their obstinate eyes dropped closed, her head against his shoulder, they hands gently tied, and the slumber of the deeps overcame them.
He awoke to Autumn’s chill, the stinging salt of brine think on his nostrils, the dip and pitch of the sea steady beneath his feet, and he knew, just knew, Maria was long gone. As he stood up and gazed out into the vastness of the ocean’s eternal surround, he could see naught of her depthless and kind eyes in those heartless waves, the trail of spume, the speechless, grey sky.
From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.
~John Donne
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If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.
He hated fall. Autumn leaves crisped, browned, and sputtered their way to the ground like tiny fires in red, gold, and umber; summer breezes gained an edge, a chilling blade piercing to the bones, whispers of the coming cold, and the oceans frothed and grayed. He scarcely noticed this, for fall meant not the dance of leaves, not the songs of breeze, not, even, the festivities of thankfulness and harvest, but the call of loneliness, the sea summons.
His vessel sat at dock, readied for its grand venture over the deeps, a journey that lasted until mid-spring. The bay's gentle waves rocked against the harbor, and his ship gently rolled with each crest and trough. Another six months of life, wasted on the great empty expanse of brine, an emptiness propagated by his crew's industrious silence. A death of vacancy.
It was his last night in port, and he felt wrecked, as though a finality loomed overhead, and knowing its proximity, he could do nothing, brought low by its burden. His crew sweated and strained, checking the rigging and oils, lugging supplies aboard and examining for leaks. They didn't need him now; he could leave them be. And what if... what if he left and never came back? He turned, facing the harbor-town. He took a few steps towards the bar before stopping, realizing he never drank anyway - another reason he made a poor sailor - and turned towards the classical music lounge. At least there, though alcohol was still prevalent, the music would soothe his sorrowed nerves.
"Better be on time tomorrow morn, boss!" his workers called behind him.
"Or we'll drag your sorry corpse back aboard!" they catcalled, hollering and whooping.
"See ya in the morn, Cap'n! Whether ya like it er not!"
He cringed, but kept walking, deeper, deeper into the swells of town. Towards the rear of town lay the music lounge, a strangely shaped structure eerily reminiscent of stormy waves. Pushing open the swivel doors, he entered into the music lounge. It was different here, a place where he might forget the other world, his world. Tall stools surrounded tables in the room's center, and a single, uninterrupted couch lined the wall around the room's circumference, only stopping near the bar and stage ends of the room. The room itself was oddly shaped, without any square angels, and the couch against the walls bucked and rolled like waves. It was not a pleasant metaphor.
A bone chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminating the hall with a romanticized light, golden warm. The cedar planks of the floor were seamless, and tip-tepped with each step as he crossed the room towards the rear where a curtained off section provided a little privacy, a little solitude. It was early still, not yet eventide, and the lounge resounded with an echoing quiet, a patience. The barkeep rubbed cloth across the bar, keeping clean what already sparkled.
Several hours, he sat, staring into space between he and the door, waiting for an end, or a beginning. He was an island unto himself, and as patrons filtered in, he scarcely noticed, so isolated was he. At evening bell, his reverie was broken by a voice, sweet and deeply resonant.
“Such a blue face, anchored in sorrow. Would you not care more for a merry time?”
He looked up slowly, as though dragging his eyes through heavy water. “What? What did you say?”
She smiled, and he saw her for the first time, teeth as pearls, eyes deep and blue as the tropical seas in summertime, her tresses collapsing in gentle waves about her slender neck. “May I give you company, this eventide, gentle sir?” She sat without awaiting an answer, smoothing her cerulean skirts and tucking a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
“Shall we dance?” she asked, and he noticed at once the strings playing, a slow violin movement swelling and gentle.
His eyes widened. “But milady, I know not even your name.”
“Maria,” she replied, extending her slender hand.
She propelled him onto the floor, gliding betwixt vague outlines of people. And they danced, and danced, slow as the tides, fast as time, sailing through the night. He forgot tomorrow, forgot his dawn voyage, forgot, even, his anger at the ocean wide. As the last of the customers tipped their hats and slipped out under the stars, he gazed into her eyes, still, an ocean of joy specked with golden stars. “Maria, will you grant me one more dance?”
And one more time, they spun round, touches light and lovely.
When, at last, they slowed their dance and drifted onto silver streets of moonlight, arm in arm, the midnight tides were long since gone. A brisk breeze bore out to sea from the hills above, and long wispy clouds veiled portions of the sky – cirrus clouds at night. Her face was flushed with breathless excitement, her eyes sparkling as starlight reflections as they found her home. Unwilling to say goodbye, they sat on the steps outside her home, whispering sweet nothings.
Hours passed, and a hint of color tinted the skyline, as their obstinate eyes dropped closed, her head against his shoulder, they hands gently tied, and the slumber of the deeps overcame them.
He awoke to Autumn’s chill, the stinging salt of brine think on his nostrils, the dip and pitch of the sea steady beneath his feet, and he knew, just knew, Maria was long gone. As he stood up and gazed out into the vastness of the ocean’s eternal surround, he could see naught of her depthless and kind eyes in those heartless waves, the trail of spume, the speechless, grey sky.
From beneath his slouched hat Ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the Pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.
O more than moon,
Draw not up seas to drown me in thy sphere,
Weep me not dead, in thine arms, but forbear
To teach the sea what it may do too soon;
Let not the wind
Example find,
To do me more harm than it purposeth;
Since thou and I sigh one another's breath,
Whoe'er sighs most is cruellest, and hastes the other's death.
~John Donne
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