A Weathered Wall

As the country gleamed new machines and his neighbors took off for the city mills, he opted to stick around and fight the change. His land was important to him. Not only did it serve as his livelihood, cultivating land was also his way of life, something he dreamed about as a boy and knew he'd always do.

He remembers as a boy looking out his back window onto the land. His family has had this land as long as his father could recall. The land was lush and deciduous. Forever green in the young boy's eyes.

As his years added candles to his cakes, the sticks outside began to disappear. At first he didn't notice. Then one winter morning he gazed through the pane and could count the snow-covered trunks in his yard. The land was damaged and deserted.

Winter brought deep freezes followed by spring's heavy rains. Land that was left was washed away. Rich and fertile no more. All around him people begin erecting fences to help with the erosion.

The trees, like his family were gone. His land looked cold and deserted. The freezes and rains heaved large stones up from beneath the surface. They scattered across his acres replacing his plants and dreams.

The stones were the anchors for the many trees. Each tree wrapped its roots around the stones to grow strong and steady above all. Now with the trees gone, the anchors are all that is left.

With the threat of his land disappearing and becoming useless, he follows suit with his peers and begins his fence. Many had taken the stones from their tree-vacant land to build their fences. It's his chance to save his dream. He builds it up rock by rock. Boulders make the base and the smaller stones pile atop. He delicately places each one with purpose. They fit together intrinsically. Nature's own puzzle. ​

The wind blows and the rain pellets his back. He pulls the footing stones off the stone boat. ​No weather keeps him away. The wall must be built if he has any chance of preserving his land. It must be able to stand the test of time.

It weaves through the woods. Angles and intersections, corners and somewhat straight lines. The stones still rest atop each other. They settled where he placed them, untouched. The spaces he left in the wall are now filled with leaves and sticks the wind carried.

It's not a perfect wall. Some of the building stones could have been better placed. It does its job though, and that is the important part.

As the years pass by, the wall still stands. He admires it from the same window he looked out as a boy. Some of the trees and vegetation have returned, but the landscape is forever changed. Rocks, trees, and a solitary man. The wall stands as a reminder of another life.

Bamboo Blades

It is useful to have. Every few minutes someone is asking for a blade, or something to puncture the boxes. The edge slits through the plastic tape smoother than a hot knife in cold butter. One fell swoop and the contents spill out.

Of course other blades sit on the shelf in the box. The small, thin box is labeled such. Thick black marker scrolled 'blades' contrasts the white container. Inside the blades shine, a few have dull or rust-spotted edges. 

In her hand is a shiny new blade. She just removed the paper from it before taking it in her hand. Thus far, it has opened about a dozen packages. They were all typical. The packing labels were accurate and everything was packaged so neat. 

Her fist wraps around the metal blade. The metal is temperate; it's probably adjusted to her body heat. She's been carrying it around for some time now. She can't seem to put it down. The metal settles her mind but turns her heart restless.

Deep breaths in and out slow her pulse. Reflections carry her forward. She can feel the corners of the blade in her palm; it is just enough to know it is still there. 

The grip around the blade similar to one around a shoot of bamboo is firm but not tight. She holds on to the blade for security, strength, and symbolism. Her mind drifts back to a time when these seemed so vacant. The time when pins pricked, blades were sharp, and the bamboo groves empty.

Bamboo is a symbol of longevity, protection, and strength in its native lands. It is held in high regards through myths and legends, use and growth. Forests of it surround shrines, and often it is harvested for construction and medication. Folklore sprinkles mystical powers onto the plant that include: healing, famine prediction, and protection.

And, in this moment, she finds her groves are plentiful, her blades strengthening, and her pins are holding things together.

 

 

Summer Signs

The orange signs litter the sidewalks and the traffic cop arms get weak. It is tough to travel without witnessing or passing through the work-zone. Be careful - traffic fines are doubled.

The warning signs go up the day of the construction, and generally not before. An open highway on the way to work may easily be down to one lane at the end of the day. The hours aren’t posted, and sometimes it seems as though the roadblock is merely for someone’s amusement.

Don’t get me wrong - the roads need the work; they need it every year around this time. The harsh winters and wet springs do their damage. Snow, sand, floods, and erosion tear up the concrete and gravel. Potholes bigger than a pizza pie blot the way. It is like playing chicken to get to the next turn.

Many streets in town right now are under repair. ‘Tis the season I suppose. The beginning of summer is here and the hoards of tourists aren’t - just the early birds. A ride across town that should only take 5 minutes is now 15. Road crews are everywhere.

This season is not much different than the past. We welcome the summer sun and dread the influx of tourists and traffic. How dare someone else follow our path and block our way?! It is easy to blame the traffic tie-ups and delays on the tourists, but in reality the patch-ups and roadwork happening cause much of the traffic in June.

Either way, locals always know the another route. Almost always, a detour exists, marked or not.
We make choices. We can sit in the traffic caused by trying to fix a void, or we can reroute our path and avoid the impediment all together.  It is the cost of living in a temperate climate.

For visitors unfamiliar with the local ways it may be a tougher choice. Leave the beaten path and take an unknown adventure, or sit and take in the hot vinyl and gasoline smells. How many times will the GPS reroute?  

In the end, regardless of our choices, we find ourselves back on that road. The surface is smooth and makes for a nice ride. The sun is out and the roof is down; we cruise right along. It is easy to forget the time in traffic or the delays due to detours as we continue on our travels.

It is a cycle. The rains and snows pass through and hinder our paths each winter. We tend to stay focused on clearing the roads and keeping the tire treads to the ground during these storms. It is not until the sun is out and the forecast clears that we consider filling in the holes in our way, and take the time to do so.

Summer is the time to be optimistic and look forward. We can sit on the beach and gaze at the horizon. We can take a detour around the roadwork and watch the country road wind ahead.

Car Ferry Connection

About 13 years ago I learned to center myself. We sat in the classroom. Jeff taught us about the center of our bodies' and the center of the earth. He taught us to connect the two.  

The trees swayed in the breeze. The lake rolled against the shore. A breeze swept through the classroom. New friendships began; old friends reconnected. These were my summers for three years. Nature and soul reconnect.

 

I loved studying Thoreau in high school. His connection to nature, to simplicity, to himself inspired and motivated me. Sitting in the classroom with Jeff was the closet I had gotten to that. Breathe in the breezes, stretch the stench out, and connect the body with the environment. 

By doing such exercises, Jeff taught us to focus on the center of the universe and we could not be moved (an idea upon which I became stuck). He taught us to focus on a feather floating and we could be lifted as such. He taught us to connect our minds, souls to the environment. No, not just the environment, the planet.
 

We ended up doing one of the martial arts that week. One in a beginner form. We all broke wood with our hands like the Karate Kid. It is a feeling I have never been able to let go. It is the most physically successful feeling I have ever had. A full on chop of a tree split the wood and changed lives.  

 

Being in the island this past week, I feel as I had that week thirteen years ago leading up to the wood chopping. My body has fully adapted to island time. It's better than McKenna time! And mentally I know I'd need to work to live here.

 

The odd thing is with the lax attitude that leads steps here, is the invigorating motivation I have discovered here. It is the same feeling I had when Jeff taught us to concentrate to the core of the Earth. I am at my core. I am connected here.  

 

To severe tomorrow - I don't know - I wonder / hope I can feel this connection again. I need to be close to the earth. I am materialistic granola. Green is my preference but functionality is also key.  

 

A piece of my upper left chest is tugging on the volcanic rock below me. Something is tethering it here, like a ship to an anchor. Or better yet, I am the car ferry and my drive dock is down. The ship hands loop the long lline around the bow handles on deck and yank the rope through the holes on deck.   

The lines become taught and the ship wavers less. No cars are falling off. Can I stay tethered without my cars falling off? The cars' only goal is to get to the opposite island.


 
Read of my other traveling experiences here:

Traveling pt. 1

Traveling pt. 2

A Stick of Gum

STJ Memento

STJ Memento

 
We sit on the beach. It isn't as busy as yesterday. Different beach, different island. Today we are on St. John. Glorious!  

St. John is completely different than St. Thomas; or so I've been told. The islands are a mere 20 minutes and ten worlds apart. The greeting on St. John is the welcome I expected upon St. Thomas. Music is playing. Drivers are coaxing you to their taxi. Seabreeze is blowing, and the buildings of radiant colors are calling our names. 


We enter into the Texas Coast Café. A mimosa, margarita, and bushwacker, please. Delicious! We each try each other's drink. The perfect start to the day - at 11:30am.

Another round plus one later, and switch the bushwacker for a Blue Caribbean (had to - it matched my dress!) and the semi-native appears. Just in time - the bartender just poured her drink. Only in STJ.

We go on a joy-ride of sorts. It is the second time today I have gone in the car with a stranger. But she isn't quite a stranger - she is from the same hometown as I. 
 
  A few errands later we get to her house. I don't realize it is where we are going, perhaps the bushwacker and blue drink had to do with that. The hills lead to immaculate neighborhoods. Lush flowers line the lawns in front of the white stone houses. The native pulls in a driveway. I realize it is hers. 
 
  She splits the house with another family upstairs. We walk around back. I take a picture of the small reptile on the flower pot. I am fascinated by the little geckos and iguanas among the islands. Where did they all go when it rained yesterday? Why haven't I seen one splattered on the side of the road? I've seen a cat like that.
 
  In her beach bag she also packs wine. Barefoot - one of my favorite. We begin to leave there, but apparently as the Islanders go, - they run on McKenna time - we leave 20 minutes later. We leave after the start of the rain shower and after switching the wine for rum and OJ. Hmmm…
 
  The car ride continues. I don't know where I am except that we are heading north-ish on the island of St. John. Couldn't say much more. I have not studied a map of this island; I am just going to take their words for it. 
 
  Speaking of their words - they speak of folks from town: exs, friends, enemies, businesses, life - how it's changed and how it hasn't. I try to follow. I feel like Hansel & Gretel looking for their breadcrumbs - picking up the few pieces left behind by the forest animals.

  My other friend was very right about the roads of St. John. They wind, climb, and have no rails before the cliffs. The roads to the beach take us through the rain, down the hills, and around the sharp bends. We pass scenic overlooks, construction sites, and road work where the flaggers say hi to you.

A Stick of Gum

The plane is mostly full. Two seats next to me are open. I hope no one will sit there. That would be nice. I have never flown in an empty row. The only other seat taken is a gentleman across from me at the other window. I bet he’s thinking the same thing.

Flight attendants make their final announcements. I look up to see a family of 5 coming down the aisle. Right to me. Great. I swallow the hope and adjust myself to be sure I have the right armrest and the space I need before they sit.

Two women sit with me. Clearly they know each other. They start code switching and I wonder if this is how the 4 hour flight will go.

It is hard not to ease drop in these tight quarters. The younger of the women, the one right next to me talks about when she moved to California. She recalls the flight out by herself. Her ears popped and she was miserable most of the trip. A boy behind her was making fun of her. At the end of the flight, the same boy, four years her junior, offered her a piece of gum. It was then she learned to chew gum to avoid the horrid ear pain.

Through her story, I gather she is about 16 years old and on her spring break. The other woman next to her turns out to be her mother. They continue to talk, sleep, and listen to the I-Pod for the flight. Across the aisle were two men. I am not sure of their relation to the women with me, but they keeprro the conversations going.

I try to drown them out with the book in my lap. It sort of works. I feel the 16-year old’s eyes on the words in front of me. One of my pet peeves is people reading over my shoulder. I change my position, close my book, and reach into my bag. I hope it’s enough to distract her.


It’s not.

She continues it seems to look at my book and out the window. She also moves in on my armrest. I am not a fan of sharing my personal space and I squeeze against the wall of the plane. I stick my sweatshirt in between my head and a window. My tray is also down to reclaim some space. I look over. She is asleep.

Peace and I drift off.

The turbulence awakes me. It was a bumpy ride all the way south. I let it rock me back to sleep and slept much better…until I heard her voice…again.

Where did I leave my headphones?? I couldn’t find them in the days approaching my trip. How I wish I had them now!

I find comfort in my book again and fight between reading and sleeping more. I had only gotten 2 hours of sleep last night. Or rather this morning.

We begin our descend. The pressure change awakes me this time. It’s not quite gum time but close. I am awake now - no sense in trying to sleep at this juncture. My book is still open to my page and I continue reading.

My seat neighbor is eagerly looking out the window I left open. The water below is crystal blue. A glimpse makes me smile. I love this view! I love being over the open water and watching the waves from above. This is why I get the window seats.

Feeling the ground closer I recognize that this is a true definition of faith - to descend over the sea and trust the pilot has the runway or airport in sight.

I see rainbows and reefs. I see the stratosphere and ships. My vacation is becoming more and more of a reality. I feel home. Inside the pressure is building.


The young woman reaches for something in her bag. I don’t pay much attention, my book is getting good. She turns to me and offers me a stick of gum. Did she read my mind?

Too distracted and thrown off by it, I politely refuse. I continue reading and glancing out the window. But now I can’t concentrate on my book. A stranger I sat next to for 4 hours offered me a piece of gum because she noticed I wasn’t chewing on any and didn’t want anyone around her to feel that pain she felt on her first flight.

I reach into my bag. I put my sweatshirt away, grab my camera, notebook (the rainbow sparked a verse), and a stick of gum. As I do this, a gentleman in the row ahead turns and asks her if she has any extra gum. His got hard. Of course she shared it.

With a smile and glint of excitement in her eyes, she talks to her mother about the island of Puerto Rico. It seems as though she spent her early years here. She is full of questions and memories.

And as the plane lands in San Juan, applause fills the cabin. It was a bumpy ride.

Price-tag Phil

Racks line the floor. They go all the way back to the end of the store. Signs hang above indicating what should be below. Should be…. Things get mismatched and moved. The signs are not always reliable. 


A pair of size 6 shoes sit next to the 10s. To my disappointment, the cute style of the 6s don't come in 10s. If they had been put back correctly, I may not have seen them, and thus not be disappointed. 


Similarly, as I rummage through the shirts I have a good idea of what I am looking for – a long, thin, tank top with 2" straps. Yet, among the thousands of hangers it is quite difficult to find. I missed the ease of searching online. 


Benefits are abundant in shopping online. I do it for most things. Groceries are just about the only thing I have yet to conquer online. I can't seem to justify skipping the weekly trip to the market. 


(Last week, however, I did conduct a search online at Peapod and other online grocery stores. I was on a mission for egg roll wrappers. I used the search to determine what stores locally had them, and in which section they'd be. In the end, I could only find empanada discs to substitute for my Irish Egg Roll recipie.)


Online I can narrow down my search in record time to find what I need. A quick visual check of the page I know whether the store on which I search has that tank top.


Or if that tank top is as good as it looks in the picture. Previous shoppers on the site review their purchases with stars or dollar signs and have the option to write reviews. I scan through these religiously; and more meticulously when the purchase is more than a tank top. 


This doesn't happen in the physical stores unless I really want to do research (online of course) beforehand. In the store, I may get a friend's or the sale associate's opinion; but, that is no substitute for the 50 other people who have purchased it, lived with it, and love or hate it. 


However, I am not very good with dimensions and sizes. Thus, I have been known to go into particular stores to spec furniture or brand sizes. As many times as I have done this, I have not returned any of those items purchased online as a result. It is like a visual review for me. I go home, back online, and complete the purchase.


The banner atop the page reminds me too of the latest offers – free shipping, buy one get one free, clearance items. Flashy colors and the idea of discounts are everywhere online. The tank top is $3 cheaper if I buy 2 or more. In turn, it is then cheaper than the ones I found in the store. If I find something else in this portal, I don't have to pay for the shipping. 


I feel like I beat the system. Free shipping is worth the gas money to the store and the other miscellaneous things I may pick up en route to the cashier. I purchase one or ten things and get them for the price tag value - nothing more. 


Some of the online stores have memberships. For a minimal annual fee, I can buy anything there and never pay shipping. When I order clothes, electronics, and furniture there often, it is well worth it. 


Above the banner in the right corner is my virtual shopping cart. What an ease off my arms! – Especially when indecision can hit and I carry loads of items around and around the store till my arms are ready to fall off. 


My wallet sits at ease too. The cart keeps a running total of the cost. I can add and subtract purchases to better fit my budget and everything gets put back in its place. When I decide that I really don't want to spend $40 on those shoes, I just hit the button to remove it from my cart. The next person, whom comes along, won't find the wrong size in the wrong spot. 


Speaking of my wallet – online I can shop without it. My most frequented shops have my information saved – credit card or bank account info, billing & shipping addresses, most recent purchases. Of course, it is all password protected and I keep a close eye on my bills to be sure the accounts are hacked. So far - so good.


Another great part of the saved info is that it makes it much easier to shop at work. When I realize half way through my work day that my sister's birthday is next week, I just make a few clicks and it's taken care of. I don't have to pull out my wallet and make it obvious what I am doing on company time, nor do have to find time to browse many stores for the perfect gift. 


Birthdays, Christmas, Just – Because occasions, whatever the reason the option is always available to gift-wrap the package. In the store fronts, I can only really do this around Christmas time. Who wants Christmas paper on their birthday? And I am not very skilled when it comes to putting paper around boxes. What a great option!


Many people will shop for the sake of shopping. Retail therapy is common among my generation. I fall guilty to this when I can. It is the joy of instant gratification that captivates me into this guilty pleasure. 


When I shop online, I get a double gratification – the simple clicks to purchase something, and then the package that arrives on my doorstep a few days later. The brown cardboard packages or bubble-wrapped envelope is always a nice alternative to the bills and impersonal ads that fill my mailbox. 


Thus, unless I am outright bored, or need something immediately (like a surprise interview) I prefer the online variety of shopping. The deals are better, the reviews are most accurate, and nothing beats getting things in the mail!

Voices in the Trunk

We open the door and ascend the crickety stairs to the attic. Someone is ahead of me – my sister, cousin, aunt, I am not sure. Grandfather is behind me.

The wooden must of 50 years past fills my nose. It is hearty and light. It is the kind that sticks with you for years long after the attic has been cleaned and house sold. My hand right hand grasps the railing as a guide. I've always gotten an anxious feeling up here.

Clothes hang from the racks. Toys sit in bins and old photos, awards, and certificates line boxes. It is the artifacts of a life before me. The stories behind each fascinate me. I forget for which relic we seek today.

As the lady ahead of me and I rummage through the lives past, Grandfather stands back and watches us from the top of the stairs always calling out directions where to look.

After what seemed to be ever, he calls us over to the corner to the left of the stairs (not the side that held the even older stuff of his and Grammy's past). We are ready to accept that we won't find it.

I stand next to the wooden rail to the stairs and a black tattered trunk is in front of me. My companion went to go check something again in the back corner where you had to duck. That's better anyways – the confinement made me nervous there, especially with the small glimpse of a window.

Grandfather instructs me to look in the trunk. I tell him I can't – it's on its side and about the same height as I. He tells me to peek as he opens it from his perch on the stairs. Very intent on always following his instructions, I drop my argument. Part of me was always curious on its contents anyways.

It creeks open. I can hear the years of closure in its hinges. Grandfather, forever the storyteller, starts on some tale about leprechauns. However, I am so curious to see what's inside and I only half listen to this story.

Next thing I know the trunk is cracked open and a little high-pitched voice is thanking me for letting him out. I don't know what to do. I slam the trunk closed and run past Grandfather down the stairs. I rush down the stairs again to the first floor.

In the sunroom, Grammy sits in her chair with a wooden bowl of crackers. I tell her that leprechauns live in the attic. She chuckles and says, "Of course they do. We're Irish." Then, she yells out to Gene.

Grandfather comes down the stairs with a grin on his face. He mumbles something about the little green people who came from the hair of the Green Lady and heads into the kitchen to check on dinner.

Snow Blanket

Outside the sky is dark. The clouds hang low and heavy. Humidity is in the air. The road is lined with bare trees and pot holes. Houses are empty – for sale, or foreclosed. Swing sets sit abandoned in the back yards. Cars are rusty and old. They squeal each time they are started. The dumpster piles over.

A weatherman calls for snow. The stores run dry of milk and bread is sold out. Main St. is busy with folks rushing home.

The snow falls. The roads become slippery and driving is not advisable. It piles upon the cars in the lot. Inches on inches build on the trees, sidewalks, and rooftops. The world is coated.

I sit inside the warmth. I fester with cabin fever. News reporters are advising us not to go outside. Someone needs to shovel the walkway and I'd like to clean off my car. We are snowbound.

A window shows me the outside. It is peaceful and treacherous. The snow has covered the imperfections. Yesterday's mistakes are not gone, but forgotten for now. No one has walked through the white depths yet. The snow tops are smooth and glistening. A blanket of tranquility is laid upon the land.

Tomorrow we will recover. We will unbury the over-snowed and try our luck on the icy roads. We will shovel and sweat. We will crash and conquer. We will relive the snow storm moments, and we will rejoice with the sun. The snow will melt and until the world looks green again, we can keep this blanket to keep us warm and serene.

-Picture by Claire Houle, edited by me

Board?

 

When we are in the midst of a conversation, catching up for old time's sake, and you say "I'm bored" what is that? Is my conversation not stimulating enough for you? Are you incapable of entertaining yourself, finding something to stay occupied, or enjoy the simple things? I just don't get it. I don't know how to respond. The conversation ends.

Are you looking to me for entertainment? I am sure I can give you my rants and ramblings; however, I am also pretty sure that they'd be over your head. We can make plans to go for a drive, a walk, a drink perhaps. Yet, I am not sure that would be sufficient. For if you only rely on others to amuse you, then where are your interests, thought processes?

I cannot help but make the homophonic relation. Bored and board – is there a difference?

The trees get cut down. They are trimmed and loaded in the back of a truck. At the saw mill, the tree is sliced and diced. Pieces are tossed aside, and others are polished. The parts are sorted. Most of the trunk is transformed into lumber. Some serve as posts, others as custom bits. The rest is mass produced into the same cut. They are broken down perhaps of different lengths and widths, yet broken down the same. These pieces are lumbered into boards.

The board is smooth and simple. Its grains run deep. A black rot hole spots some pieces and the short ends are splintered. It doesn't do anything, just sits there waiting. One day someone will come in and purchase this board. They will take it home, cut it, nail it, and paint it. It will become something else.

It takes that outside influence to make the board into something, to change it. Do we all need that persuasion from another source to resolve our boredom?

As a child I specifically remember being bored. I would whine to my mother, father, and sister, anyone who would listen that I was bored. Often times they'd redirect my activity. I could vacuum, do the dishes, laundry, pick up a book, play a game, etc. Generally I chose the latter. Hours later, they'd have to tear me away from a story I got lost in, or a game I was determined to win. Quickly I learned the value of friends and reading.

Ever find yourself bored? What do you do?

Rainesday

The farmer peered through his blinds. His crops were sprouting just as expected. He could not wait to harvest his grains. Oh how his family famished for the food! It's been almost a month since they last ate. The sun had been too harsh recently and the crops were burning up before he could collect them.

Though this may sound awful, to the folks in Geeville it was utter delight. For the story says that every 17 sun months the rays are too strong and the G's disintegrate from the grains. The next day the farmers are to plant a new set of crops. They will grow twice as fertile.

On the third day, in hopes of blessing their newest seeds, the folks of Geeville celebrate with the stalks of their burnt crops. The children collect the stalks and break them in to small pieces. The homemakers puree them and add a secret blessed solution. The families prepare for Rainesday.

After their nap, the folks of Geeville celebrate the germination of their grains with the mixture of their g-less grain stalks and secret solution. They fill their glasses and dance around. Mirrors are placed about to reflect the rays and the community of Geeville celebrates until the mixture is gone.

As with every party, things have a way of getting out of control. In the midst of their cheers and tangos, some of the g-less grain stalks and secret solution spills. They don't fret about the dribble. (Except that the bigger the spill, the sooner the mixture is gone and the party comes to an end.) But, there is no clean-up. The clouds below them soak up the overflow.

In the days following their gala, the grains begin to sprout and their tummy's grumble with hunger. The clouds below them become more solid and thin. Down below, we feel this cool mixture of their g-less grain stalks and secret solution spill over. We welcome this gift to in turn help our crops and support our lives. Celebrate the rain.

…On the Back of a Crocodile

She smiles because she is content, peaceful. Ever since she first started travelling, she has always wanted to take a full vacation all by herself; and now the moment is here. The ship is so large she can barely feel the roll of the waves beneath her. Sights and sounds of tomorrow fill her eyelids as she drifts to sleep.

Images of the palm tree swaying in the island breeze encapsulate her mind. She forgets that she is away from home, sleeping in a new place. The sea carries her through the night.

A jostle wakes her. Was it the shadow? Did it grab her? Where is she? What is happening?

Ten seconds with her eyes open and still shaken, she remembers her fabulous vacation. Another jostle throws her to the wall. Sharp pain fills her shoulder. The waves toss the ship. She feels like she is in a ping pong match.

Her cabin is a mess. Clothes and accessories are everywhere. Her face feels wet and she wonders if it was from the water that once stood on her bed stand. No time to check. An ear pinching alarm reaches her.

She recalls the noise from her muster drill earlier in the day and attempts to leave her stateroom. The dresser is on the floor. The pictures litter the room with broken glass and paradise. As a shroud rests in her hand she finds her way to the door. It is hard to balance. The hallway is crowded and everyone is using each other for support.

Before she can grab a lifejacket, the vessel tosses her to the unwavering water.

Mouth open wide gasping for survival gets water instead. She cannot open her eyes; the energy of the storm presses them close and holds her under. Her lungs feel bubbly and she fears choking. In her mind she can only hope that these bubbles will float her to the surface. How much longer can her body stand the submersion?

Her body bobs the surface. Thoughts are vacant and bleak. Too much is happening - too much sensation. All she can imagine is a vicious tornado made of water that has scooped her up and thrashes her about.

Spiraling toward unconsciousness, she fights. Arms and legs tingle. It is a familiar feeling she recalls from her younger days when she'd kneel until her legs fell asleep. Back then it was a fun feeling. Now it terrifies her. She needs a oxygen. She needs a breath.

A shake awakes her. It is unlike the jostle that woke her earlier. It is a hand. She lifts her head out of the now calm sea. Pieces of the ship scatter the waves. She grabs on to something, what it was before she is unsure. It is enough to keep her afloat for a moment. She spits, coughs, and can take a breath of air finally.

 

Ever felt shipwrecked? What lifted your head from the sea? What kept you above the swells?