Day 155

The leak is plugged and holding, at least for now. They both sit back against the boat railing and catch their breath, mostly exhausted by panic. They are ready for situations like this one. Just little hiccups really. It was their relationship that was not prepared for the slow weathering it would need to resist over the year.

Lisa had been seeing a therapist back on terra firma. Ralph was never one for counseling. The therapist thought the sailing trip would be a good thing for Lisa. Help them grow closer again. Things had changed for the two of them once their youngest packed and left for the dorms. Another thing their marriage was not ready for. Silence was new and it pierced each of them. No longer capable of just being with the other. No longer truly knowing who the other was apart from their children.

A year long sailing trip sounded like a smart idea. Ralph recently retired. Lisa able to put her VP in charge and call in at every port. They had sold their house and most of their belongings to buy the boat. The act of letting everything go to do this trip made them feel young again. Spontaneous and free, like when they first met.

As they sat against the railing, catching their breath, Ralph reaches over to Lisa and grabs her hand. She turns her head and smiles at him. With surprise, Lisa then shrieks as a mullet, flung from the sea, lands in her lap. They both break out in hysterics at the site of the fish now flopping on the deck. Day 155. Two hundred to go.

Part and Parcel

When it reached Cincinnati, all signs of her true destination were scraped from the face of its container. The long road to this final resting place did no harm other than wipe her ticketed existence from the face of this good earth. She was well packed. Handled with care. No damage done. Yet now she is lost. Stacked amongst the other rejects and unknowns. Her fate, for the foreseeable future, to remain in this corner of this shipping yard, gathering dust and debris. No one left to miss her.

You see, her purveyor passed shortly after shipping her off. Her intended recipient was unaware of her existence, and as fate should hold, had transferred to another address without informing anyone. Thus the package was returned to carrier and returned and stored and attempted to be delivered, back and forth through the postal netherworld until she became just another lost and misplaced parcel.

But why should she be bothered when she is only one amongst so many. So many things to never be seen and never be appreciated.

And how about that smile, if it is a smile? She will continue grinning oh so slightly until the end of time. Uselessly smirking in the dark of this container in a mostly abandoned and hidden part of Cincinnati. Never again to allow anyone to speculate as to the meaning behind those lips.

The Channel

The best and quickest route would be to take the channel. Though clearly the channel has drawn them to group here. Something about the water. It is different. It tastes odd. It smells strange too. Not in a bad way like when too many dead fish wash up. More in a very distinct way. Once you know the smell, you never forget it. They must be attracted to the smell or to the taste, though I can’t say I have ever seen them drink anything.

It is uncommon for them to group in such concentration. That makes it far too dangerous to float the channel. One or two we could handle. But look at how many there are. We will take the long way through the brush and through the unprotected fields. Each surely to be filled with its own share of surprises. Hell, I’ll take surprises any day over the grizzly end we would face at the channel.

We pull the skiff ashore and unload it. We strap up and bring what we can with us. Some things must stay with the boat else we will be slowed. We let the boat float down stream in hopes we might come across it again later. It won’t be any good to anyone if left tied off here. A clearing is found a stones throw from the shore. It will make an ideal camp site. She won’t be happy to stay here though. Far to close to the channel. No doubt we will hear them all through the night. The moaning. The wailing and thrashing. No one will find sweet dreams this night.

Don’t Look Back

The Boy took off running. There is no looking back. For looking back would be to admit the wrong. See the fault. Not his own, but that of his forebears.

So long now he had felt trapped, held down by something not of his own creation. Something he helplessly had to carry the weight of. The choice was not his. But this choice, to run, was his own.

What freedom is found in those strides as he sheds everything thing that once bound him. Each foot hitting the pavement sends a shock of relief through his body. You see, this Boy is much unlike the other young boys. This difference is not something consciously known, but felt deep down. That feeling is the catalyst for the run and the break to freedom.

The wind blows his hair as he runs faster. Faster. He can see the unmarked boundary all the others dare not cross. His heart thuds in his chest. This could be it. His liberation could be real this once.

With a muted THUD, something heavy and solid strikes him in the small of his back. He is toppling, rolling head over in the grass. The pain is what is real now. The boy struggles to get to his feet. He must keep going. And he knows that to look back would mean utter failure.