text: If you were a sailor, a real one, would you rather die on the open ocean, in an immense storm, tossed around by waves bigger than houses, fighting stoically against the fiercest of mother nature’s outbursts, dying the death of a man, they would one day make a movie about? Or would you rather sit on a quiet little stream, and sink due to an unnoticed, tiny lack in your sloop’s bottom and drown because the cabin door was jammed? Martin would certainly take the latter, and if he had the luxury of free choice, would order the day on the stream to be sunny, pleasantly warm but not too hot and his favorite, mellow song, leisurely pouring out of the radio. How he hated excitement and clamor and the feeling of unsteadiness, wasn’t easy to express. Why in god’s name had he become a sailor then and not a clerk at a bank or a porter or a librarian? Because Martin had grown up under the impression that certain things were desirable and desirability, in a general sense, was more important than personal happiness. He was, after all, a man. And men were sailors or boxers or at least the clerk’s boss at the bank. He hadn’t the athleticism to prevail in a boxing ring and not the administrative cunning to be a leading figure in business and so it had been the open sea. When enlisting, he had felt sick and when entering the ship for the first time, he had thrown up, three times on deck, in violent pursuit of the railing. This had made him the universal laughing stock at first, and once they had all realised that his soul was pure, he had become everybody’s little brother, that deserved to be teased in a loving way but sheltered and protected from any real harm. His first three weeks on sea had been hell and worse than that. He had believed to die everyday but when this constant sensation had reached its pinnacle, and he had actually believed, in his heart, that he would die from his misery, it had suddenly vanished, from one moment to the next. This, not in any way foreseen, change of his constitution, had thrown him into a fit of exultation that had caused him to hit his head and drop overboard. Unconscious and half drowned he had been fished up and revived by resounding laughter, sniffing salt and liquor. The day was as beautiful as one could imagine it. A clear blue sky, sprinkled here and there with snow white clouds. The sea was a calm, vast, blue carpet, the ripples made by the ship, the only perceptible movement, stirring the surface. Martin was leaning on the railing. The time at sea had made his skin richly tan and his black hair fell in one impenetrable mass down to his shoulders. He was almost alone on deck, everybody else dozing in their cabins, because the day was an off-day. But since his newly found strength and tolerance for the conditions at sea, which had not wavered, only increased since the unexpected onset, he spent as much time as possible gazing at the horizon, thinking of all the secrets and romances and unseen places that lay hidden beyond. He would write a book. He was collecting more than enough material, being surrounded by the ocean and the people who were mad enough to make it their home. Everyday he saw something that would make a good sentence or a good passage or sometimes a good entire book. He always noted ideas and instances down on his hand sized notebook, which he carried around at all times. ‘Little poet’ had his peers called him. Most of them were charmingly unfamiliar with any type of literature. But some of the crew, like lost wanderers, were surprisingly well read. Tim Bucky for example, a short but broad fellow with a bald head and little, round spectacles who was responsible for some part of the machinery. He was a long established part of the crew and the contrary of what you would expect him to be at first glance. With his scrutinizing eyes, the rapid way of moving his short, thick body, his low and hurried way to speak, you’d always expect him to be part of some conspiracy. But when you sat down with him to speak and he began telling about his two sons, the love for his wife, the way he broke down every time he had to leave them or how much he enjoyed poetry and classic prose, it was impossible to not perceive his company as an enriching experience. One evening Martin and Tim had pulled up two chairs to the railing and were watching the sun sink down behind the ocean line. They had talked extensively about the craft of writing, disagreeing vigorously about what postmodernism had done to it. They ended up agreeing to disagree, Martin passionately disavowing anything postmodern, with a youthful generalization, while Tim, cool headedly granted postmodernism its raison d'etre. Tim had read more, knew more, found Martin’s agitation amusing but was in no way patronizing and instead wanted to give Martin every opportunity to test his standpoint against another one, refine his arguments and broaden his horizon. Tim was, and had been, assuming the role of Martin’s benevolent big brother and Martin, though prone to become heated in argument and discussion, knew that and checked himself multiple times in the course of the evening. “I can’t wait to get home.” Tim said after they had finished their discussion. “I have been gone for too long. Missed too much. Billy is probably becoming taller than me now.” he smiled melancholy when he said it. “You miss them a lot, don’t you?” Martin asked, knowing the answer but wanting to give Tim another opportunity to talk about it because talking was therapy and on the ocean among none but rough men, there weren’t many chances to talk and less chances to talk about your pain. “I miss them more than I could express in a dozen books.” Tim replied. Then he turned his head and said “But I got you to take care of now.” Martin laughed. “We’ll be home soon.” he said and Tim, for a moment, seemed relieved that someone else had spoken these words. Martin was sure that they were on Tim’s mind at all times. He nodded and then repeated dreamily “Yeah, we’ll be home soon.” and then he went on “Martin, I don’t know if this was my last voyage.” And though Martin was in no way surprised to hear Tim say it, it nonetheless stung. He knew that his life was on a ship for years to come and he also knew that in these years, Tim’s presence, as a friend and a mentor, would have been a great comfort. “I’ll come and visit you, every time I am on land.” Martin said. “You have to.” Tim said. You’d like my boys and Mary as well. She is an amazing cook.” They shook hands upon that and said good night. They were roused, like everybody else on the ship, with the first violent shiver, in the middle of the night, that a foreboding wave sent through it, from bottom to chimney. Nobody thought anything of it. A wave on the ocean, what was there to fear, what was there to even think? The second wave, stronger than the first one, making things drop, made them sit up. Far removed, still, from anything resembling concern, some of them cracked jokes and laid back down, demonstratively turning around, as if to show the ocean that he had to bring more to make them so much as notice. But he brought more and they lifted the blinds of the portholes and found the ocean in a commotion that promised to become vicious. Seasoned sailors have seen storms and terrible storms but always, even for the most experienced of them, a boisterous ocean is a frightening sight, and those of them who have truly seen many storms, who have nothing left to prove, to themselves or their peers, admit their fear. It was the first time Martin saw waves this high or rain this hard or heard the wind howl that loud. You had the feeling that all forces of nature had conspired against them and now brought the onslaught. It would get bad, was the general tenor. The equivalent of “Brace for impact.” on a plane, except that impact on the ocean lasted longer. Nervous glances were exchanged. Some attempts to still joke around were soon choked and muted by the booming thunder and with every increasingly lonely joke that soon ceased to be voiced entirely, the sea became a bit more violent. Martin’s old fear of the ocean was revived. He felt like he had felt on his first day. And suddenly no desire was bigger than to be on solid ground, in a warm bed or in the arms of his mother. He had felt home and welcome on the ocean for a short two months. This feeling had abandoned him now. He was the unwelcome visitor and the ocean finally made that clear. Why was he here? The question was raging inside his head. Why wasn’t he in a bank at his job as a clerk? The ship was lifted high up and came crashing down. The oldest ones, the roghest ones, the ones in the crew you wanted to have by your side in a fight for your life, had turned pale and mute. Where there had been the universal, mocking denial of any danger, was silence. Many of them sat with glassy eyes. The panic took full control of Martin. There was no escape. Utterly trapped they were in their floating, iron cell and all they could do was pray. Where was Tim? Tim’s presence would help. He wanted to ask Tim if he had seen such a storm before. If he was confident they would survive. He wanted to hear a story about his children or his wife, wanted to hear him say that he couldn’t wait to see them soon. Tim was surely confident right now, Martin believed. He would be concerned but reasonably so. Were they sinking? Were they taking water? Hadn’t they lain higher before the storm? Like a maniac, Martin hastened to one of the portholes. He only saw heaving foam, striking against the glass as if in an attempt to burst it open. “I see you Martin.” the ocean said. “You can’t hide and there is no way to go and watch me break your little ship in half.” Martin shuddered. Why did people go to sea? Were they mad? Why had nobody told him about this? He suddenly felt anger arising in him against the captain and the ship comapnie’s office. They had made him sign a waiver. They had known it and hadn’t cared. The bored secretary who had asked him in, when he had been nervous and fidgety, had known about the awaiting doom and now lay on her couch, in front of the TV, safe and sound. He felt the hot tears on his cheeks. He wanted to be with Tim right now. They were ordered to stay inside their cabins and Tim, Martin knew, was employed down at the machines. At the height of his emotional racket he succumbed. He stopped fighting. He seized to resist. He sunk down on his bunk. His two cabin mates had been quiet this whole time. Ronny had started his seafaring life together with Martin, had signed up on the same day, had stepped on deck, for the first time, on the same day. He had suffered at first but not nearly as violently as Martin. Toby was a bit older but not a veteran. He was fearless however, had nothing to lose back at home, had become one with the ship, one with sea and gave the impression, at all times, that he was fine with death. There is no comfort to be found in the presence of a person like this, should he be the calmest man on earth, in the most dangerous situation. Martin lay there, the ship tossed around by waves as big as houses, a storm they would one day make a movie about. He held on when he was about to fall, shook all over when the ship made signs of capsizing. It was the worst storm any of them had ever seen, and later they would all say, even the captain, that they could not believe the ship was still floating. It all lasted five hours. The storm abated almost as suddenly as it had come. They all noticed it at the same time. It was a careful opening of the blinds, a timid look outside. A first smile and then a nervous laugh. No one trusted it at first. They had the universal idea that the storm played a trick on them. Wanted to grant them a little hope before crushing them finally and entirely. But when the first ray of morning sunlight pierced the pitch black sky, they all drew a deep breath and the tight grips on the crosses and bibles and bunk-beds loosened. Martin awoke, as from a trance. He sat up, breathed deeply, covered his face in his palms. He was shaking but it was the tension leaving him. It was the last nervous tremble and the weakness that follows a great relief. He wanted to sleep. He had never been this exhausted before. He first realized that Toby had moved when the other sat down on Martin’s bunk beside him. In an unexpected gesture, Toby lay a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “I almost shit my pants as well.” he said half jokingly but with the intent to offer some sincerity. “I am not made for this.” Martin said but he laughed and Toby laughed and Ronny laughed as well. “Nobody is made for this sort of thing.” Ronny said. There was the unspoken, unnamed and greatly increased unity between three men who had, together, come uncomfortably close to an early death. Who had seen the certainty of sinking into the endless depths of the ocean pass over each other’s faces “I thought I would be ready for anything out here.” Toby said. “I really did. But I don’t think I am.” Martin regarded his cabin mate, thoughtfully. “Does something to you.” Ronny said and they all agreed. They knew that they had been inaugurated in a seafaring man’s secret. And they would certainly never forget their first and in any of their lives, most violent storm. Years later, Martin would feel the tingling sensation that had, by force, been stamped into his memory, of being lifted up by the waves, the way a feather would be lifted up by a gust of wind.