The Lonely Sailor

When the seas dried up, the sailor could no longer sail.

There, in the middle of the barren ocean, he waited. How long had it been since he was landlocked? He did not remember. What became of his crew? Of his captain? He did not know. In the vast

emptiness of salt and sand the lonely sailor had no course of action. In the beginning, if there was such a time, he kept to his chores. What else was there to do?

Nights no longer came and went; the days turned into a continuous stream of time. The wind never blew. Rain never poured. The only constant was the magnified heat of the sun. Its heavy rays slowly

tormented him; never leaving its spot in the sky, as if it had always been that way. But these trials did not stop the lonely sailor as he was built on tougher circumstances. Without a crew, the work

would be difficult and take ten times as long, but he had nothing but time. Each day, or what he believed was the start of the day, he would set off for his chores. The deck could not be washed, for

what water would he use? Instead, he took to sweeping. Dust would shoot above his head and leisurely settle to the deck as if never disturbed at all, only to be swept again tomorrow. Then he

would move to inspecting yesterday’s work, searching for imperfections. Lose knots and furled sails would be swiftly dealt with. Each time he pulled tighter, but they never seemed to stay. Chipped paint would be brushed over with a fresh coat. It took seconds to dry. And the boards would be waterproofed, as he believed someday the storm of storms would come and fill the ocean with water once more. These tasks were written down daily in the logbook, each page identical to the last.

While at one point the lonely sailor kept to these chores religiously, the days now would be spent staring off into the horizon in pursuit of an oasis. In the crow's nest, he searched for his crew, his captain, the waves, the breeze, and his life. While he couldn’t seem to find them, hunger and thirst found him. His stomach ached, but there were no fish to catch. His throat clawed at itself, but there was no rain to drink. His skin radiated heat from the devil’s sun but there was no wind to cool it.

Lost in his mind the lonely sailor imagined what his crew was like; what his captain was like. If he ever did have one. Perhaps his captain was a fierce man who would never shy from a battle. At night he would gather the crew to drink and sing. After they were good and drunk, the captain would play with a candle flame and tell tales of angelic mermaids leading desperate men to their demise, lost buried treasure from ancient civilizations, and ferocious giant squids that would make any man shake in his boots. Every man except for the captain, of course. Each of these stories would enrich their minds and fill them with confidence that their alluring captain was someone they could only hope to be. Perhaps if he were here now, he would rest a hand on the lonely sailor’s shoulder and inspire him to push forward. Fret not, once I took on an army of the undead. They got nothing but half a pinky. All to the future son, never the past. Ha, that reminds me of when...

. . .

The sea was still lost. The lonely sailor stood in the crow’s nest, one hand shielding his eyes, the other gripping the mast. He waited. Eyes painted on the horizon. Death wouldn’t take him, and life refused to accept him.

In a past life, he believed to remember a young woman. The two would travel into the markets together, collecting the day's supper and tossing coins to a young beggar boy. At night they would lie and listen to the ocean crash against the sand. What a glorious sound it was. Her face he could not picture but he could feel her warmth. It wasn’t like the sun. It felt serene like his body was being brushed over with happiness and life. A faint blurred vision of him leaving and the last muffled sound of her cries. A past life indeed. What sailor would take a woman’s call over the sea?

. . .

The sun refused to leave. The lonely sailor submitted to its whim and pled for relief. Had he been here one month or thirty years? It felt the same. Time was no longer a consideration. Each moment mirrored the one before it, and the ones yet to come would unfold in the same eternal rhythm. His life played out before him. A constant state of death, but a never-ending life. It reminded him of a trinket he once believed he saw, of a man chasing a cat with a broom. The box was wound tight and when released they moved in a continual circle, never catching the cat but never ceasing to run.

Forever.

His mind spiraled into daydreams, desperately attempting to grasp hope. One day he might be the captain of his own ship and at that time he would gather his crew and tell the tale of when he survived the dry sea. The act of courage and willpower it took. And they would look at him with the same looks he gave his captain. Am I not captain of my own ship already? The empty vessel offered no response. All I need now is a crew. A crewmate. Just one.

The lonely sailor continued to search on the horizon. Maybe in some strange world, that woman would be looking for him, stranded in the dry sea on a dinghy. Dead. Possibly. He shielded and

locked his eyes from the sun. His other hand gripped the mast, allowing him to lean forward ever so slightly. His body, anchored to the nest, was forever caught in this moment. He would start his chores the next day after he was done. But when would that be? A day, a year, a century? It all was the same. It all was tomorrow.

The lonely sailor waited for a moment that would never come.

. . .

Far from the dry sea a little girl sat on a large stool and wound a small trinket causing a muffled melody to play. She watched in continuous fascination. She always had. After the song finished,

she stood on her chair and placed it in its display case, alongside an antique glass bottle. There, right where you belong. Her eyes wandered over to the little sailor, perched in his ship, his gaze fixed

on the endless horizon in search of pirate ships and treasure. She decided to leave him in his world, hopping down from her stool and stepping away. As she walked, she imagined the countless adventures he must have and the grand journeys he'd embarked upon. She smiled.