There were times where he thought they might let him stay. Times when his feet would stay planted as the wind tossed his hair. In those times, he’d look down, down at his worn shoes on the pavement, or the gravel, or the grass and his heart would alight. Imagine, he would think in these times, and his inner voice would fall to an astonished whisper, imagine getting to stay here. And he’d look up at the budding trees, at others too, heavy with their fruit, and he’d spy the clouds and dare to inhale, just once. And just once was all it took. He was away then, to the winds, flying with his arms out. No, he would think then, of course not, and he’d look back and spy instead the people he’d been with as he floated with the clouds. There was a woman, kind in the eyes and quiet now. There were children, too. They grew smaller by the instant and whether it was the wind or the hole where his heart had been, there was a great torrent in his chest that fought to erupt from his mouth. It was hollow yet it was whole, and it shook him as he fought to scream to them. What he’d give for a minute of time once more. What he should’ve.

But the winds were keen to move him on, and he was no longer apart from them, so he eyed the figures and wondered at all things as he flew on, through orange groves and open fields, to foggy coasts and onwards, to the sea.

There were times he forgot. There were times he dreamed. And in those times, the wind blew fiercer for it, and sang in the leaves for his pain. There were many there with him.

Get out of your head, and see:

all the bits of the world you love

framed anew

there’s water, though it’s different

there’s sunlight and hills

there are even clouds

And she’s there, and they are too, playing in the waves

You only have to get up and go see them. 

When you look back, will your pain seem real? 

Or was it all foolishness? Self-indulgence? Hatred?

What was it all worth?

How many moments did you lose?

Get up, and go make a fool of yourself before it’s too late.

The hot coffee tin used to burn his hand through the cup, and the peacoat used to hold some mystique whenever he felt its weight on his shoulders, as though he were playing dress-up. He used to stumble too, his legs unsure at the swaying sea. Periodically, these things crossed his mind, but he never lingered on them. To do so irked him; made him feel gross, or full of shit. Or both. 

Those thoughts didn’t cross his mind now. No, now he blinked, and allowed his eyes to adjust to the low lights that fell on his cot. The porthole wore the darkness before morning. 

The call rang out like a dirge. He rose like a machine on his cot, still dressed. He’d expected the signal. Besides, he couldn’t sleep so close to it all. Coffee poured, he held the cup steady as the ankles in his boots carried him forward without spilling. He’d slept in the coat. Only for an hour. He wasn’t the only one. The crew went about their business in silence. A few words here and there. A trade of glances. A couple grins to carry them onward despite their reality. 

There had been days at sea when all he thought of was home. Of land. Of, funny enough, standing on land and looking out to the sea. He remembered his brothers and sisters, how he told them he’d be out there one day. He never knew how far the ships could take him; wasn’t sure he truly understood it now. He could see their faces and with the sight in his mind’s eye, his chest began to churn. 

“Somers,” a voice said.

He blinked. Their faces were gone, wrapped neatly in a gift for later. He finished his coffee.

“Aye, sir” he said, “here.”

No more was needed. He donned his headphones and settled in place. His fingers worked the dials of their own accord. Intuitive, they’d called it. And it was, he knew. He was made for this, and that scared him, so close to it all. 

Reports of U-boats played in his mind now in the same way boogeymen had hung there in his bedroom in the dark.

He wrote down coordinates with his dominant hand. A man took them over his shoulder and they set to their table, pencils and rulers at their work.  

We played on the beach with the other tourists.

A prophet of the people there stood defiant behind us all, his songs of independence ringing out from his radio. Words within reggae called to former times and he eyed us from behind his sunglasses. 

One of the little ones had to go to the bathroom, so we ran up to the soggy, open-air building on the beach beside the highway. 

I saw their bare feet against the mossy, damp floor.  I turned instinctively, turned to go away from them.

“It’s okay,” they said, “it’s okay.”

I halted, my son’s little shoulders in my hands.

“He just has to pee,” I said.

“It’s okay,” they said, and one of them nodded at me from the floor, and I nodded with my eyes averted. Their shame and mine mixed in the room that reeked of more than feces. 

The little one could barely go, and I guided his shoulders again, away from them.

“Have a good day,” they said.

How much of the world played on outside her window?

She tried to shake those voices of the past, old arguments and the like, but there wasn’t a corner in her room where they didn’t follow, flowing in with the tropical breeze, and one of them seemed to hold the door just out of reach. 

She tried to come back. Tried every trick she knew—to no avail. None of the bullshit worked like it sometimes did. The past was out in force today. She wanted to call someone, someone who knew her. Someone who could help. Neither she nor her fingers could summon the number to dial. Nor could she summon the words to lay upon page, though she tried for an hour, sitting there with an empty scrap before her and a pen in her hand. She almost began to scribble the melodrama she’d written her first albums with, but couldn’t stomach it. There’d be no narrow escape today.

By evening, she clawed her way out of the room. 

She left the villa, resigning herself to the task of driving and wondering what it was that she wanted. Was it to simply forget?  

She met a woman in the shops. It was easy; the woman knew her from the billboards. She no longer had to feign laughter or act the part. Everyone knew she’d dropped out of the game. She answered a few questions the way an older movie star would’ve and took the woman by the arm. They walked together, and she took note of every detail, from the bracelets on the woman’s wrists to the shape of her back, sleek and tan, beneath the woman’s half-shirt. It was a cosy sort of meandering, one an old couple would partake in, and she enjoyed the role play. The day was its own now, somewhat removed from the episode before. The woman’s eyes were there, looking back at her from behind a display of wind chimes. The light from the window played in the many shards of glass and colorized the air around them. Green eyes with specks of brown. Strange eyes for this place. 

They went back and made love slowly. The breeze played on, fluttering in through the open window and dancing over their skin. Afterwards, the woman wanted to hang around, and she felt the tugs of annoyance at the woman’s youth. Couldn’t she see it was done? 

She wondered if she could act in this play much longer. She wondered if she preferred the room empty. Something in the window drew her eye.

What is this place to us?

Twisted pine and the sounds the needles make when the mountain winds scream through them. What we eat. Cans of beans. Bits of jerky. Of goo. Gatorade powder. Gummies. Bagged pasta and the like. 

We sit there on a platform above the world we know and watch the Sun set. That star breaches the rock; it falls dark. I imagine it going down further to the valley, where all the good people and the crazies and the cars won’t notice that extra bit of light they’re getting. 

Morning. Still water. Shade from the nearest peak hangs over camp, douses us in cool air. Up and at’em, time to dive in. It’s tradition, and it’s good for you. But hanging on the edge and peering into the dark water stops you for a moment, and, if you let it, may make you turn round and walk back up the rocks with your tail between your legs. So you go. You think fuck it and flex your toes and launch out into the air above the glassy water and it’s only abrasive a moment before you’re swimming in easy strokes out to the middle.  You won’t go all the way, but you’ll think about it. 

Midday brings the weight of a close Sun. Swim and hide, swim and hide. It’s not until the afternoon, and the evening where things stir. Expeditions in canoe and kayak. The boys and you climb a peak. The boys traverse islands on their own. They scream in exaltation at their newfound freedom, the discovery of an agency that’s denied to them at home. The Sun lowers; the light changes. Time to dive now, to test your lungs, see how deep you’re willing to dive this year at this age. 

Build the fire. Light the fire. Cook the food. Little stoves for cups of coffee. Treats and a sunset. Your skin is happy from the water. You’re happy for the sweaters you don, the thick socks, and the blanket over your shoulders. Thoughts that transcend time and place leave you with little to say; you smile. 

What is this place to us? Just a lake. Just a mountain. Just granite. A few hundred trees. A birthright, a habitat, a playground—a point of clarity. You look about in perpetual awe. You look about in relief, and say, “it’s all still here. It’s all okay.”