Life at Sea Part 4: Hammocks, Bioluminescence, Reading, and Flying Fish
I wish I could say I was easily awed by the majesty of nature and that I always find delight in the small things, but most of the time, that’s not me. It takes grand laptop wallpaper expanses to floor me truly, but on a few occasions, something small catches my attention. Maybe it’s mushrooms growing from the cracks in a New York City sidewalk or the feeling of that perfect nub buried in the crack of that climb in Bishop. Rare enough that I had trouble coming up with two examples despite being able to name ten grand landscapes without delay. I aspire to change that about myself and hold onto those smaller moments.
Perhaps this is easier on a ship, but I am progressing. You spend so much time seeing the same things, mainly the ocean and boat, that even the smallest deviation provokes awe—the perfect environment to facilitate greater appreciation of details.
Hammock: Everyone loves a hammock, and I have never thought about why. It likely has to be the feeling of comfort generated while being swaddled and rocked to sleep, reminiscent of childhood. You can always increase the relaxation vibes by bringing a hammock, though the one time I tried to spend a night in the woods in a hammock, I found it incredibly uncomfortable. The wind was whipping me about, and I got so cold. But I persevere, and my hammock is the source of envy on the ship. Whenever I get the opportunity, I rig it. The creative element is figuring out where I won’t be in the way. I have found a couple of good spots, but I haven’t found the perfect place. It depends heavily on which sails are set and where the watches work that day. The gyroscopic nature of a free-hanging hammock on a ship is a trippy experience. I would feel as if I was completely still as the boat rocked and rolled around me. It felt like I was the only constant in the world. That is a bit solipsistic, but I will allow the indulgence this time.
Bioluminescence: I was sitting atop the chart house lamenting that another watch got to see the spectacle when one of the other crew members said, “It’s happening right now.” Aquatic stars mingle with the reflections of their celestial counterparts. I have endeavored to see this phenomenon since I learned about it, but I did not imagine it would be out at sea in the middle of the Atlantic. I thought it was something contained at the coasts. The plankton, or whatever species they might be, blink in the wakes created by the ships, going on and off like fireflies. This was incredibly vibrant in the draft of the ship, where a tornado of lights trailed us.
Reading: I have spent a lot of time reading, and there is usually a delight in the act, but I had a spiritual occasion the other day when I was finishing up a chapter. In that moment when you raise your eyes from the page, they attempt to focus on something new. The nearest thing for me to focus on in this instance was the horizon. The ship disappeared, and I was alone in the Atlantic without another soul for miles. “Water water everywhere and not a drop to drink” —Samuel Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. This coincided with the halfway point of our journey across the Atlantic, which means the closest humans to us at the time were in the International Space Station (unless there was some other ship just out of view). The size alone made me consider my place in it all. Vast, empty, and full just beyond the surface.
Flying fish: Silver coins skipping off the surf, sailing for yards. The only equivalent I can manage is a hummingbird flitting between flowers. I heard them first, a twinkling across the water going right past our starboard side. I was on helm, and the rest of my watch was setting a sail, so they didn’t notice my elation at the hundreds of fish. Some would gain the air only to plunk into the crest of the following wave, but a few, on occasion, would catch a good draft and fly for what appeared to be 50 yards. I thought they only glided, but their wings angled and flapped to keep aloft. On another day, seagulls swooped through the schools, reminding the poor fish who owned the skies. The flying fish is a liminal creature belonging to both words, in a fantastical state of transition. I have seen how dreams are made.
There is so much newness on this journey, and I know I have already forgotten much of it, but hopefully, I can learn to appreciate the moments as they come, so when they do pass out of memory, I will at least know that I gave them the proper reverence.
