Short story
MY BOAT
BY FIONA CUMMINGS
To feel the warmth upon my face as I sail further into the
teal sea’s, with the salt exfoliating my skin. The smell of new air. The swishing
of the water pressing against my boat. Clinking of wood with a back fold of
slapping waves echoing reverberating off the well-used boat I call the silver mermaid.
There is nothing quite like that smell. Salted dust scatters
recklessly like a tent of therapeutic vibes, injecting itself through my body, nostrils
widen to take in as much sea air as possible like a junky addicted to his fix!
What is out there in the far distance? Who else shares this
vast land with me?
I wonder why other people were on the water. For what reason
on this day would they be here?
I find myself eating the sky. Like a child morishly munching
at an ice-cream on that red hot July afternoon.
My fingers grip tight
as we sale, the silver and me, into rough terrain
I almost experienced broaching as the what can be deadly dark charging ocean decided
to treat me as it’s enemy, so quickly had to hold out my palm as a simple of
peace and had to bear away from the wind. Using the bailer to remove as much
water as possible from the awash, to expose once again the brightwork, seeing
it Gleeman against the suns crystals of gritted salted stars, was a relief!
I hungerly grabbed at the bearstone and started to clean the
wood, as for the arch board, that would have to wait until we returned ashore.
Coming to the bar, we would sail with care into once again a
tank of tranquil teasing turquoise waters and triumphantly, sail until I use
the bowline, bight and bar knots again to tie my Silver to a place of safety so
one can lay back and have fond day dreams of a Keel, sang by my grandfather
when I was a small child.
The movement of the boat sent me to sleep. Seagulls sang me
a la la bye and chimes from bells on boats beyond the white whispering waves
spoke to me gently.
The sea is a funny thing. Mans killers, a torture terror,
like a disgruntled teenager or a two year old with pure frustration over not
being able to communicate enough to say what they wanted. The sea can be a
place of perfection. Paradise holidays and for an artist, one would imagine to
use a frame would be a sin.
I must call it a day now, but what a day. I am sure my boat
and I will have more adventures as this is a place I can be myself. I am in
control.
Well, that is until the ocean decides my fate?
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