JohnLocke
03-13-2011, 02:43 PM
She was a ten year old ship with a forty year old captain. The former, to be precise, was a galleon, imperfectly built in 1743 A.D.; the captain was even less well put together, by nature or God or whoever puts men in such miserable situations. Yes, both had seen better days, and both seemed ready (if a ship could be regarded as such) to journey and discover, to pursue what man could only hope to put an unnoticed dent in:
The water.
There are, of course, many other names for it. But this didn’t matter to the captain or the ship. Though they’d sailed barely a year, they knew well enough that the “Pacific Ocean,” without the added mystique of a worn out nickname, would certainly suffice. Sure, the idioms flung upon the ocean by sailors past did have a literary ring to them, compounding mystery on mystery, as human beings often like doing. The captain, however, figured that these mystifications were for people who were too sure of themselves; those who overlooked the truer mystery present all around them. For them, he supposed, the world was not unusual enough as is. The ship, though silent, likely agreed.
It usually did.
But the captain had reasons for his no nonsense approach to seafaring. Sure, he had been of a practical sort since birth. But he wasn’t without experience. Not even three years ago, the captain’s only son – an aspiring sailor himself – fell overboard, panicked and drowned beneath the turquoise waves. It was his son’s first time on open water. The captain, who couldn’t help but remember such a tragedy, reckoned sailing was the surest way he could, at least in some sense of the term, be with his son. Of course, it took a lot of adjustment. One does not just take to the seas after losing everything to them. It took time, surely, but he soon felt content in accepting his anxiety – at least to the greatest of his abilities. It was worth more than anything to him, after all. Thus, only two years later, he became the captain of his very own ship – fulfilling the dreams that his son, like many brave men, once dared to pursue.
But his similarities with other sailors, it seemed, ended at this pursuit. Many others were content, at least superficially, with the simple life of a merchant. Others – more extravagant, perhaps – sought naval power or even piracy. The captain, however, was neither gaudy nor superficial: he wanted only to sail for something entirely different. His was a higher calling, the lure of the deep – of his son. You see, neither gaudy nor superficial.
Just honest. He wanted to sail to find what he was truly sailing for.
And the ship, in its silence, agreed once again.
It was 3025, and all the oceans had finally dried up. Why they dried up was truly anyone’s guess: neither holy men nor scientists had any good explanation. What was known, however, and with a much more potent certainty, was that this ocean-shrinking could lead to unmatched wealth and fame. Yes, as sailors and astronauts once explored the vast, unknown regions of the natural universe, mankind now explored its forgotten self: shipwrecks were the new oceans and faraway lands; once-watery graves were the new lunar mountains and craters.
From across all walks of life, men were driven towards this newly uncovered seabed. Some were merchants, looking to find a historical gadget or potential antique; others were – as is usual in the human race – thieves, looking to loot the now-exposed ships and their deceased owners. Still others were military men, looking to conquer the new, arable territory now open to humanity.
There were, however, and as usual, those rarer men among them. They did not seek marketable goods, or treasure, or land. They did not seek fame or the promise of a better life. They sought adventure and accomplishment.
Among this rare lot was an even rarer man, looking for something very few men then seemed to care about: meaning. It was not to be achieved, thought the man, through gold or the relics of an old ship. It was not to be achieved through the political domination of land, nor any other means sought by so many men. No, to the man, he could only seek meaning in the mystery which consumed him since birth: a solution; one which could, perhaps, find permanent resolution in the sandy valleys which concealed it. This mystery was passed down through the generations – as these things usually are – and it retold the story of his great (thirty-six greats, to be precise) uncle, a sailor who mysteriously vanished one day in 1743 A.D.
But what of this solution? The man, after years of misleading clues and demystified family legends, was content only to find the old ship which now entombed his great uncle. Surely, there would be some form of evidence buried within that ship. This evidence was, ultimately, his solution. It was his meaning.
And the man, with a contentedness wrought by all-too-frequent letdowns (he had believed, for instance, that his great uncle slept within the Atlantic Valley – a myth which was dispelled after thirty years of investigation), was still driven by the familial urban legend and its inspirational merit. It was all he had left. In fact, it was all he ever really had. Thus, as he awoke on a cold Monday morning in the middle of the Pacific Valley, disheveled and tired, and with many doubts in his head, he still saw reason to journey onward.
It was a bright July morning when the captain and his ship left harbor. The white sun was shining powerfully on its earthly children, among them businessmen and merchants who calculated the weight of their new imports. Servants, of course, were left to the carrying of these imports; above their exasperated breaths one could hear a gull or two, fighting over food. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang.
For the captain, however, all was silent. Even his thoughts were nearly muted, as the ship sailed steadily beneath him.
The serenity of nature, and the happiness which it spurred, were quickly ended when the rickety ship met wave. As it crashed over the bow, water dampening the boots of the broken captain, the dejection and sadness which were common to him swiftly returned. He was reminded, as he feared he would be. The chaotic parabolas of water dropped indiscriminately over the old wooden deck; splashing this way and that, over and under all in their way. As they streamed, surely, the captain saw his son’s panic. He nervously laughed. What was this, anyway? Some fluke of human understanding? It was only water, which cared not for his son, nor chose to mimic his demise. Surely, he reasoned, nature wasn’t mocking him.
And the ship agreed.
It was nighttime now – at least midnight – and the captain had not yet turned back. Though he was pensive throughout his entire voyage; constantly ruminating a slew of important thoughts, he never considered a problem which, to any levelheaded sailor, was of the greatest importance: when to begin his return. Perhaps this was because he was not like those other sailors. They had merchandise to import. They had treasure to spend. They had victories to proclaim.
He had the sea, and it was everywhere but back home.
But slowly, as is usual with a broken man, the waves took their toll. Crash after crash reminded him, invited him to imagine the suffering and the panic, the frantic splashing and useless last breaths which then seemed so vital. He could not ignore it. There was enough mystery here for an entire crew, surely. But it was not of an adventurous sort. It was hypnotizing, a manipulative unknown. The captain shuddered, and the ship did as well.
After walking north for only twenty minutes, a subtle rain began to pour. It was not too long after that this subtlety became exaggeration, as the man was blinded in all directions by a falling wall of silver water. His journey, with nearly two hundred days behind it, would end its 201st prematurely.
On the 202nd day of travel, with less inclement weather ahead of him, the man journeyed onward toward the site he had determined most apt to solve his historical puzzle. With only a meager portion of food remaining (he had incorrectly presumed that some herded animal would have adapted to the northern Pacific Valley), the man resigned himself to a more certain fate. It would lie, he hoped, in the cabin of a worn out, 18th century ship.
Not two days later, he was proven right.
It was three in the morning now, and the captain had barely considered his return. It was soon after this time, in fact, when he decided such a homecoming may not even occur. His bearded chin quivered as another wave crashed toward him; saltwater mingled with a trailblazing tear. Over the wrinkled inner edge of the captain’s cheek it trickled, down past his chapped, bleeding lips and onto his tongue. This was the last taste the captain would know, he decided. It was a fitting final meal.
The ship agreed.
As he descended the chamber of the ship, stumbling here and there over upended wooden boards, he imagined it again: the flailing, helpless limbs, like torrents of water splashing awkwardly about. He fumbled the keys to his cabin, but finally slid them properly into the keyhole. Setting down an old lantern, which flickered for survival, he found in his desk a fresh scroll and quill, with just a bit of ink left. Yes, it was at this time that the captain decided his fate. He would no longer be childless; if there was an afterlife, he supposed, then he might meet his son there. If not, then the Locker might reunite them. The ship, a good friend as always, silently agreed; damning itself in the choice of its captain.
Just over a windswept dune lied an old ship, overturned, with its cabin exposed in salvific fashion. The man walked slowly toward it, hunger consuming him – yet his mind as alert as ever. This was what he had lived for, what he had hoped for and, after nearly forty years, this yearning would be ended. He shook at the consideration of the thought. Though he knew he could not deny his elation, a sense of finality began to settle in. He approached the old ship, as the wind howled wildly in the ancient and empty basin.
His hands trembling, the man fumbled clumsily over the latch of the cabin door. After a slight nudge, the worn lock collapsed in an uncaring heap, as the Pacific wind blew it westward. What irony, the man thought nervously to himself, that his lifelong puzzle be solved in a downtrodden ship; the light of his life found in the unlit cabin before him. Though little doubt remained, he prayed he was right.
The captain finished his final note and stowed it carefully in a chest, continuing all the while his final drink, and he progressed up the stairs toward the dark night above. The ship recoiled in pain as he cut its anchor free, tying it short to his ankle. He stepped above the deck, on the edge of the ship, and committed to the waters. Tears were made indistinct, as he flailed and suffocated beneath the waves, panicked thoughts flooding his mind. A calmness returned to him, not unlike that which was offered at the onset of his voyage, and wearily he accepted the crushing weight of the impending mystery which engulfed him. He would soon have relief and, as the last vestige of thought neared him, he realized his drowning son may have felt likewise.
The man paused momentarily before entering the cabin of the old ship. He would soon find the solution to his puzzle, he just knew it. This was a moment to revel in. It was years in the making. He entered and glanced around the room.
The man did not find his meaning, at least not right away. So he searched, as all men do. And in a nearly unrecognized corner of the cabin, in a chest falling slowly apart, he found it.
Beyond all belief, beyond all reason and chance, he drew from the weak chest its hidden gem: a withered, dilapidated note. He skimmed past its unrecognizable face, and found that its body was illegible. Illegible, that is, except for one part – dried with smeared ink and glued on dirt, it read:
C.pta..n R..t.lle
After his jump, in the dead of night, both the captain and his ship were sunk together, the whole world unknowing. It was a fitting end, for a man who thought life meaningless and a ship which never denied him. And as the galleon fell beneath the irritable, ever-consuming waves, it carried down with it the note of the broken captain. Stained now with both tears and seawater, the black, smearing ink spoke silently:
I do not want this anymore. I cannot handle what I have been forced to bear. What man, besides only a selfish fool, could continue with the guilt of outliving his only son? What God would deliver this burden? Only a tyrant or an imbecile, and neither one can be happily lived under. It is meaningless. I shudder, finally, at the thought that it always has been. I love you, brother. May you see happier days then those I was forced to embrace.
Captain Rostelle
The man had solved his puzzle. He had found his evidence. He had found his meaning. And as he stumbled out of the ship’s old cabin, a single raindrop trickled down his face. The rest of nature followed suit, and the clouds joined in the man’s joyous and well-deserved weeping.
As he laid against the ship in the pouring rain, fulfilled as any man could hope to be, he resolved himself to die; contented with meaning. He looked up and smiled, the rain quenching his thirst. With resolve – with purpose – he read Captain Rostelle’s broken name once more. Looking toward the old ship, in a fitting style, he whispered softly:
“I suppose I can die here, old friend. This place is better than any other I could think of.”
As his last words broke the air around him, drifting through the cabin of the ship and upwards toward its mast, the man fell quickly asleep – broken from exhaustion. The old ship, ever the patient friend, and after one thousand years of silent reservation, heard the complementary words of the man dying beneath her.
And, as always, she agreed.
The water.
There are, of course, many other names for it. But this didn’t matter to the captain or the ship. Though they’d sailed barely a year, they knew well enough that the “Pacific Ocean,” without the added mystique of a worn out nickname, would certainly suffice. Sure, the idioms flung upon the ocean by sailors past did have a literary ring to them, compounding mystery on mystery, as human beings often like doing. The captain, however, figured that these mystifications were for people who were too sure of themselves; those who overlooked the truer mystery present all around them. For them, he supposed, the world was not unusual enough as is. The ship, though silent, likely agreed.
It usually did.
But the captain had reasons for his no nonsense approach to seafaring. Sure, he had been of a practical sort since birth. But he wasn’t without experience. Not even three years ago, the captain’s only son – an aspiring sailor himself – fell overboard, panicked and drowned beneath the turquoise waves. It was his son’s first time on open water. The captain, who couldn’t help but remember such a tragedy, reckoned sailing was the surest way he could, at least in some sense of the term, be with his son. Of course, it took a lot of adjustment. One does not just take to the seas after losing everything to them. It took time, surely, but he soon felt content in accepting his anxiety – at least to the greatest of his abilities. It was worth more than anything to him, after all. Thus, only two years later, he became the captain of his very own ship – fulfilling the dreams that his son, like many brave men, once dared to pursue.
But his similarities with other sailors, it seemed, ended at this pursuit. Many others were content, at least superficially, with the simple life of a merchant. Others – more extravagant, perhaps – sought naval power or even piracy. The captain, however, was neither gaudy nor superficial: he wanted only to sail for something entirely different. His was a higher calling, the lure of the deep – of his son. You see, neither gaudy nor superficial.
Just honest. He wanted to sail to find what he was truly sailing for.
And the ship, in its silence, agreed once again.
It was 3025, and all the oceans had finally dried up. Why they dried up was truly anyone’s guess: neither holy men nor scientists had any good explanation. What was known, however, and with a much more potent certainty, was that this ocean-shrinking could lead to unmatched wealth and fame. Yes, as sailors and astronauts once explored the vast, unknown regions of the natural universe, mankind now explored its forgotten self: shipwrecks were the new oceans and faraway lands; once-watery graves were the new lunar mountains and craters.
From across all walks of life, men were driven towards this newly uncovered seabed. Some were merchants, looking to find a historical gadget or potential antique; others were – as is usual in the human race – thieves, looking to loot the now-exposed ships and their deceased owners. Still others were military men, looking to conquer the new, arable territory now open to humanity.
There were, however, and as usual, those rarer men among them. They did not seek marketable goods, or treasure, or land. They did not seek fame or the promise of a better life. They sought adventure and accomplishment.
Among this rare lot was an even rarer man, looking for something very few men then seemed to care about: meaning. It was not to be achieved, thought the man, through gold or the relics of an old ship. It was not to be achieved through the political domination of land, nor any other means sought by so many men. No, to the man, he could only seek meaning in the mystery which consumed him since birth: a solution; one which could, perhaps, find permanent resolution in the sandy valleys which concealed it. This mystery was passed down through the generations – as these things usually are – and it retold the story of his great (thirty-six greats, to be precise) uncle, a sailor who mysteriously vanished one day in 1743 A.D.
But what of this solution? The man, after years of misleading clues and demystified family legends, was content only to find the old ship which now entombed his great uncle. Surely, there would be some form of evidence buried within that ship. This evidence was, ultimately, his solution. It was his meaning.
And the man, with a contentedness wrought by all-too-frequent letdowns (he had believed, for instance, that his great uncle slept within the Atlantic Valley – a myth which was dispelled after thirty years of investigation), was still driven by the familial urban legend and its inspirational merit. It was all he had left. In fact, it was all he ever really had. Thus, as he awoke on a cold Monday morning in the middle of the Pacific Valley, disheveled and tired, and with many doubts in his head, he still saw reason to journey onward.
It was a bright July morning when the captain and his ship left harbor. The white sun was shining powerfully on its earthly children, among them businessmen and merchants who calculated the weight of their new imports. Servants, of course, were left to the carrying of these imports; above their exasperated breaths one could hear a gull or two, fighting over food. Somewhere in the distance, a church bell rang.
For the captain, however, all was silent. Even his thoughts were nearly muted, as the ship sailed steadily beneath him.
The serenity of nature, and the happiness which it spurred, were quickly ended when the rickety ship met wave. As it crashed over the bow, water dampening the boots of the broken captain, the dejection and sadness which were common to him swiftly returned. He was reminded, as he feared he would be. The chaotic parabolas of water dropped indiscriminately over the old wooden deck; splashing this way and that, over and under all in their way. As they streamed, surely, the captain saw his son’s panic. He nervously laughed. What was this, anyway? Some fluke of human understanding? It was only water, which cared not for his son, nor chose to mimic his demise. Surely, he reasoned, nature wasn’t mocking him.
And the ship agreed.
It was nighttime now – at least midnight – and the captain had not yet turned back. Though he was pensive throughout his entire voyage; constantly ruminating a slew of important thoughts, he never considered a problem which, to any levelheaded sailor, was of the greatest importance: when to begin his return. Perhaps this was because he was not like those other sailors. They had merchandise to import. They had treasure to spend. They had victories to proclaim.
He had the sea, and it was everywhere but back home.
But slowly, as is usual with a broken man, the waves took their toll. Crash after crash reminded him, invited him to imagine the suffering and the panic, the frantic splashing and useless last breaths which then seemed so vital. He could not ignore it. There was enough mystery here for an entire crew, surely. But it was not of an adventurous sort. It was hypnotizing, a manipulative unknown. The captain shuddered, and the ship did as well.
After walking north for only twenty minutes, a subtle rain began to pour. It was not too long after that this subtlety became exaggeration, as the man was blinded in all directions by a falling wall of silver water. His journey, with nearly two hundred days behind it, would end its 201st prematurely.
On the 202nd day of travel, with less inclement weather ahead of him, the man journeyed onward toward the site he had determined most apt to solve his historical puzzle. With only a meager portion of food remaining (he had incorrectly presumed that some herded animal would have adapted to the northern Pacific Valley), the man resigned himself to a more certain fate. It would lie, he hoped, in the cabin of a worn out, 18th century ship.
Not two days later, he was proven right.
It was three in the morning now, and the captain had barely considered his return. It was soon after this time, in fact, when he decided such a homecoming may not even occur. His bearded chin quivered as another wave crashed toward him; saltwater mingled with a trailblazing tear. Over the wrinkled inner edge of the captain’s cheek it trickled, down past his chapped, bleeding lips and onto his tongue. This was the last taste the captain would know, he decided. It was a fitting final meal.
The ship agreed.
As he descended the chamber of the ship, stumbling here and there over upended wooden boards, he imagined it again: the flailing, helpless limbs, like torrents of water splashing awkwardly about. He fumbled the keys to his cabin, but finally slid them properly into the keyhole. Setting down an old lantern, which flickered for survival, he found in his desk a fresh scroll and quill, with just a bit of ink left. Yes, it was at this time that the captain decided his fate. He would no longer be childless; if there was an afterlife, he supposed, then he might meet his son there. If not, then the Locker might reunite them. The ship, a good friend as always, silently agreed; damning itself in the choice of its captain.
Just over a windswept dune lied an old ship, overturned, with its cabin exposed in salvific fashion. The man walked slowly toward it, hunger consuming him – yet his mind as alert as ever. This was what he had lived for, what he had hoped for and, after nearly forty years, this yearning would be ended. He shook at the consideration of the thought. Though he knew he could not deny his elation, a sense of finality began to settle in. He approached the old ship, as the wind howled wildly in the ancient and empty basin.
His hands trembling, the man fumbled clumsily over the latch of the cabin door. After a slight nudge, the worn lock collapsed in an uncaring heap, as the Pacific wind blew it westward. What irony, the man thought nervously to himself, that his lifelong puzzle be solved in a downtrodden ship; the light of his life found in the unlit cabin before him. Though little doubt remained, he prayed he was right.
The captain finished his final note and stowed it carefully in a chest, continuing all the while his final drink, and he progressed up the stairs toward the dark night above. The ship recoiled in pain as he cut its anchor free, tying it short to his ankle. He stepped above the deck, on the edge of the ship, and committed to the waters. Tears were made indistinct, as he flailed and suffocated beneath the waves, panicked thoughts flooding his mind. A calmness returned to him, not unlike that which was offered at the onset of his voyage, and wearily he accepted the crushing weight of the impending mystery which engulfed him. He would soon have relief and, as the last vestige of thought neared him, he realized his drowning son may have felt likewise.
The man paused momentarily before entering the cabin of the old ship. He would soon find the solution to his puzzle, he just knew it. This was a moment to revel in. It was years in the making. He entered and glanced around the room.
The man did not find his meaning, at least not right away. So he searched, as all men do. And in a nearly unrecognized corner of the cabin, in a chest falling slowly apart, he found it.
Beyond all belief, beyond all reason and chance, he drew from the weak chest its hidden gem: a withered, dilapidated note. He skimmed past its unrecognizable face, and found that its body was illegible. Illegible, that is, except for one part – dried with smeared ink and glued on dirt, it read:
C.pta..n R..t.lle
After his jump, in the dead of night, both the captain and his ship were sunk together, the whole world unknowing. It was a fitting end, for a man who thought life meaningless and a ship which never denied him. And as the galleon fell beneath the irritable, ever-consuming waves, it carried down with it the note of the broken captain. Stained now with both tears and seawater, the black, smearing ink spoke silently:
I do not want this anymore. I cannot handle what I have been forced to bear. What man, besides only a selfish fool, could continue with the guilt of outliving his only son? What God would deliver this burden? Only a tyrant or an imbecile, and neither one can be happily lived under. It is meaningless. I shudder, finally, at the thought that it always has been. I love you, brother. May you see happier days then those I was forced to embrace.
Captain Rostelle
The man had solved his puzzle. He had found his evidence. He had found his meaning. And as he stumbled out of the ship’s old cabin, a single raindrop trickled down his face. The rest of nature followed suit, and the clouds joined in the man’s joyous and well-deserved weeping.
As he laid against the ship in the pouring rain, fulfilled as any man could hope to be, he resolved himself to die; contented with meaning. He looked up and smiled, the rain quenching his thirst. With resolve – with purpose – he read Captain Rostelle’s broken name once more. Looking toward the old ship, in a fitting style, he whispered softly:
“I suppose I can die here, old friend. This place is better than any other I could think of.”
As his last words broke the air around him, drifting through the cabin of the ship and upwards toward its mast, the man fell quickly asleep – broken from exhaustion. The old ship, ever the patient friend, and after one thousand years of silent reservation, heard the complementary words of the man dying beneath her.
And, as always, she agreed.