Navigating a Sea of Disjointed Thoughts

“The stars are really bright out here,” I say, staring out above the ocean into the sea of constellations. The darkness is almost blinding, but the tiny pinpricks of light are dazzling to watch. There are two bars of railing that stretch around the perimeter of the sailboat—my feet are perched on the lower, and my hands are grasping the top, while leaning over the edge and peering out into the expanse of night.

 

“What was that? The waves are drowning out the sound of your voice.”

 

I step down from the railing and turn to find you spreading a red-and-white checkered blanket out on the middle of the deck. But the wind keeps whipping it back and forth before you can straighten it out. Watching the blanket too long makes it turn purple, so I focus instead on the look of concentration on your face.

 

“I said, the stars look really bright out here.” I walk over and take a corner of the picnic blanket. We manage to wrestle it into submission before the wind takes it away completely. We sit down, and you pull a basket out and set it between us.

 

Your gaze turns upwards momentarily, contemplating the billions of stars that stare back. “Can you see us up there?” you ask, as you reach into the basket and hand me a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich. You also set out two empty plastic cups.

 

“Yeah,” I say between bites. I point up to a spot just below the full moon. “There's us right there, roasting marshmallows in Limbo. See the flames, there?” I trace the pattern with a finger.

 

“I can't quite make out the marshmallows,” you say, “but I can see the Limbo bear sitting behind us, about to attack. Look at that huge mouth of sharp teeth. It looks just as ferocious in star-form.” The bear constellation glares at us with fiery eyes and snaps its jaws in agreement.

 

Just then, a large wave tosses saltwater onto the deck. I worry that our picnic supplies will get wet, but the blanket rises to the surface, carrying us on top of the water. Good thing there's no such thing as sea-ants, I think to myself. Eventually, the water disappears through cracks in the floor.

 

I think about the Limbo bear adventure again. “How did we get out of that one, anyway?” I wonder, finishing my sandwich. “I'm pretty sure one of us ended up falling off a cliff at some point.” I try to make the memory surface, but it's too fuzzy to put together properly, as if it's buried elsewhere.

 

“I don't know,” you admit, “but we're here now, so we must have survived somehow.”

 

I nod and turn my attention to the empty cup in front of me, but before I mention it, you guess what I'm thinking. “I've planned something special for you. Watch.”

 

A small rain cloud gathers above our heads and pours raindrops into our glasses. I wait until the cloud dissipates, then take a sip. Thankfully, it's apple juice and not soda—I've been trying to cut back lately.

 

“Good, no lightning this time,” you laugh, and we tap our drinks together in a mock toast.

 

Several minutes later, we are finished with our picnic and we stand side by side at the front of the boat, watching it split the sea in half just below us. I notice the current pick up speed considerably. I don't worry about it, until I look over at you and see that your face is twisted in confusion, as if a voice from another world has whispered something in your ear. You open and close your mouth once, like you're trying to say something you can't put into words.

 

Finally, a question. “Do you know how to sail?”

 

I'd never really thought about it, but your face tells me that it's important in some way that I can't comprehend.
 

“No,” I reply finally. “I don't.” I study your expression, but you seem to have let go of whatever was bothering you. I know that your old self has returned when you break into a grin.

 

“Neither do I,” you say, with a hint of mischievousness. “Oh well.” You return your gaze to the black water.

 

I elbow your side gently.“You know, you'd better not worry too much about it, since sailboats can smell fear and everything.” I smile up at the moon and its pure whiteness staring back at us. The crescent is reflected in the choppy water, reminding me of a set of jagged teeth. That's when I notice that the entire planet seems to drop off not too far ahead of us. The current picks up speed.

 

I motion to the edge of the ocean that looks like it's been cut with a pair of scissors. “That's a waterfall, right?” You nod silently. I think for a moment. “You know,” I add, “I like waterfalls. They're just so beautiful to look at.”

 

“But, what about when we're falling down it?” you say with an unusual combination of anxiety and awe. The tip of the boat suddenly goes from skimming the water to hovering in midair as we continue forward toward the abyss.

 

I lean as far forward as I dare and try to make myself understand how far the drop is. It must go down for miles, although the bottom is shrouded in a dense fog that the moonlight cannot cut through. And we are about to topple over the edge.

 

“It is a sailboat,” I begin as the boat tips forward, trying to be optimistic. “Can it sail through the air, too?”

 

You think for a moment, eyes pointed at the sky, unfocused. “I guess it is a possibility,” you say finally. You don't sound too sure of yourself, though.

 

We both anticipate the drop, grabbing for the closest thing we can reach—each other. So, we clasp hands desperately, knowing there is virtually no hope for either of us. But being this close to you has somehow lifted my spirits, if only slightly, and so it is with a somewhat less terrified expression on my face that we plunge headfirst into the mist.

 

I ease my eyes open, wondering why we haven't smashed into thousands of pieces yet. I look around and notice that we are slowly drifting down, easing back and forth in about the same manner as a feather would float in a summer breeze. We both breathe a sigh of relief, and lean over the edge to stare down the endless, misty nothingness below us. The wind picks up and the sails puff up like billowy marshmallows. After a moment we seem to be shifting to the side—I have to grasp the rail to avoid tipping over.

 

“I hope the wind doesn't push us too far away,” you say, glancing up at the sails. “We wouldn't want to get lost.”

 

“That's what compasses are for, silly,” I respond, pulling one out of my pocket. But the needle doesn't seem to commit to a single direction for very long, so I put it back. You start to look worried, but I shrug it off. “Oh well,” I say lightly, “So what if we get a little lost? It'll be an adventure.”

 

We watch the sun rise in front of us until we slowly come to a stop in the still water. The clouds are pink and swollen with rain, but none of it falls. The sun's rays stream through the sky and reflect on the calm surface.

 

The moon has disappeared as the light of day takes over the sky, turning it into a crisp blue. The clouds drift away, and we are alone again, surrounded by mist.
 

“So, what now?” you wonder, scanning our surroundings. Our boat has stilled completely, and as we look down, we can see that the water appears to be only a few inches deep. The bottom is coated with smooth pebbles that glitter in the sunlight.

 

“I guess the ride's over,” I say, hopping over the side and climbing out until I am submerged up to my shins. The shore is just up ahead, so I start making my way towards it, grateful that my clothes are waterproof. You hesitate for a moment, the follow behind.
 

The sand sticks to my bare toes. You've caught up to me and we are walking together to who-knows-where, our sailboat waving good-bye in the distance. There isn't too much around; everything farther than ten feet or so just turns into blinding gray fog, so we continue to walk.

 

After several hours of getting seemingly nowhere, a large, dark shadow materializes in the fog. As we get closer, I am able to identify it—a large, wooden door with intricate carvings and a large brass knob. There's nothing surrounding it, no frame or anything, no wall connected to it. It's just perched in the sand like someone placed it there temporarily and forgot to come back for it. I examine the pattern etched into the wood; it's filled with depictions of large bears that are all standing ferociously on two legs. I'm just examining one closely when I hear you say, “Look at this.”

 

I look up to where you are pointing, and above the door is a brightly-lit sign with the word “EXIT” glowing red in a floating black box. It shines so brightly that I have to blink several times after looking away from it.

 

“Is this for us?” I say, reaching tentatively for the knob, but pulling my hand back at the last second. Your eyes search the door as if you were trying to find some deeper meaning in it.

 

“I...think so,” you say softly, confused. “Where do you suppose it goes?”

 

“I don't know.” Where else could it go? The only place to exist is here. Or maybe there is someplace else that we haven't discovered? This thought frightens me a little, but it also fills me with excitement. I feel your hand take mine firmly and squeeze my fingers.

 

I turn to you, and you grin mischievously. You lean in and whisper, “What do you say, are you ready for one last adventure?”

 

A smile spreads across my face. I don't even bother to reply—I lean forward, grasp the knob and pull the door open.