The Ecstasy of Salvation

I sat under a canopy tree. My clothes were sweaty and soaked from the humidity, and the tired-looking bum boats rushed back and forth across the bay, colliding as they maneuvered into Changi port. Lines filled quickly, and everyone bustled to make the next ride.

"Where do you come from?" one of the boat owners asked me.

"The United States," I replied.

"Ah," he said, seeming surprised, "welcome, welcome. But first - the ride costs four Singapore," he said, with noticeable haste.

As I pulled the money out, he talked with a distinct accent, and it was the first time I noticed what the natives called Singlish. What a beautiful soul he was. His name was Luke, and he was already becoming a good friend. 

"Oh, and what state are you from, mister?" he asked.

"Colorado."

That was where his daughter had moved, and the mention of it made him smile.

"Her husband is a good lawyer out there. He's an international lawyer, but I don't know what that means," he explained.

He didn't look old, nor was his energy depleted.

"Oh, you have no idea how happy I am to have you in my boat! Your girlfriend is also back there, isn't she? Don't worry. I will wait for you when you need a ride back."

The island was ten minutes off the main strip, and the water coasted gently. The behemoth cargo ships scattered around the sea, filling the gaps between the viridescent island blocks - some anchored and some slowly tugging out of the port. I watched the village come closer into view, and the sun was bright in the sky. Light reflected off the rocky white water, and the boat rumbled into the next port. 

"Here," the old man said, "is a good place to stop."

He slammed up alongside the wooden steps and flapped down a small bridge. Then, turning his wheel, he backed into the dock as far as it would let him.

"Go, go, hurry," he said.

Everyone stepped off carefully, and we rented bikes in the village, practicing our dicey mandarin.

Lily pads rested on bath-temp water, and pink flowers lined the sides of the ponds. Large trees were dangling over the road, but I couldn't tell if they were willow or canopy. Then, wild macaques came from all directions, and they were thieves. We ate and headed for the dock shortly after a long ride and hike around the wetlands. I spotted the shaved pink, almost white-colored boat with crusted tires insulating the sides.

Luke was small and tan with a smooth face and white hair. He was a fast-twitched guy, buzzing with pulse, but he wasn't a strong man in his old age. Luke lived in a small flat near Chinatown and owned a bookstore, which his wife ran for extra money. He asked if I had ever read Proust, Joyce, Dickens, or Shakespeare, and I told him I had.

"Oh, I love Dickens!" he said, "my daughter used to love it when I would read Dickens. You know, he was such a good kids' author. She used to feel safe with his stories. You wouldn't believe how much she loved Dickens. Joyce too - she said Joyce was bizarre but in a way that makes you want to be like him."

The sun was setting on the ocean's horizon, and the stars popping out at sea. We were a far bus ride from downtown, and the light of day was dimming fast. 

"There will be a wait," he said, "it's after dinner, and people are going to the island to watch the stars tonight. Tell me, what are the stars like in Colorado? What will my daughter see tonight?"

"Why, they'll be strong tonight, especially the closer to the mountains you are."

"Yes, she always told me of the mountains there. The vast Rockies," he said, gazing at the sun and then back up to the sky.

"What do you think the moon will say to her tonight?" he asked. 

Shortly after, the dock cleared, and we talked with Luke well into the night. He spoke of nothing but his daughter. He was excited when he thought of his grandchildren, who were getting so big and looking so much like him. He mentioned a hotel perched on the road opposite the Ferry, and my girlfriend and I booked a room for the night.

In the morning, I watched the sunrise, and the workers arrive at their jobs. A café opened across the street, and Luke said they had a good breakfast. How long would it be before Luke had walked onto his boat? It was still and lifeless, only bound by a rope to the dock. A short-haired woman was sitting alone in the captain's seat with her head facing out the window to the sea.

After breakfast, I made my way to the boat. Her back was to me as I walked on the platform, and the thump of my foot alerted her that I was there. She turned and puzzled my face until she took a note out of her pocket. It was crinkled, and it was damp with salty teardrops. I opened it with shaky hands and read the note. It was from Luke.

"I won't see you tomorrow, so my wife will give this to you if you choose to come back. 

I was going to kill myself before I met you yesterday, but I wanted one last ride, one last fare for my wife's keeping. I have wished to not wake up and be so lonely anymore, and I do nothing but foster the cultivation of human despair. I miss her far more than she reminisces about me, and only a fool would be happy with that. You meant a lot to me, my friend, even with the limited breath we got to share. You taught me how to view things again. Thank you for that."

Luke was gone, and people were now hustling to be the day's first ride.