Le Petit Marin

The little sailor sits on the dock, his bare feet swinging back and forth.  Dances of anticipation in the crisp salty breeze.  The sun dips lower toward the hills casting an amber glow against his ruddy skin.  He extends a plump toe out to rest on the board floating nearby, as it bobs up and down like a happy puppy.  The foam surface skitters away under the sailor’s light pressure, but then returns with rapt loyalty. 

He is not new to this experience.  Sea water surrounds him, runs in his veins.  The size of it, its vastness against the sky, calls to him.  He is free on the water, unfettered.  He glances over his shoulder, sees the coast is clear.  Balancing more than his trepidation and excitement, he steps lightly aboard and pushes off into the current.

Sailors know to trust themselves, even in grey seas and red skies, they say. 

As he peers overboard, the clear water shows him much he wants to know.  Fish slide and twist, tiny armies marching in perfect synchronicity.  Urchins threaten with their dark spines, hiding tiny creatures within their folds.  A large dark mass, a great ray or tortoise he believes, sulks underneath keeping close to the sandy bottom.  The sailor senses that all is calm, no fish too large to upset his path.

As the sun sinks and the shadows lengthen, the rhythmic pulsing of the green dock light catches his eye to the port side.  It foretells shallow waters and rocky perils, but he is undeterred.  Fixing his gaze, he sails on strong in his resolve to navigate whatever presents itself. 

He glances back at the shore, at once reflective of life on land and proud of his progress far from its reach.  A lone sailor on the seas.  No one to tell him the best way to steer his craft, no one to judge his journey, no competing requirements to force a compromise.  His pulse is steadied and resolute as he juts out his tiny chin against the breeze.

Fantasy unfolds before him.  Wild adventures too large for books, too complex for gravity’s pull.  Tales of danger and triumph; of quests to faraway lands; of victory stolen from defeat in the nick of time.  He plays the parts of hero and villain, a saber brandished for effect when the need arises.  The sailor is lost in his quest.  An odyssey where the warrior returns home only to wonder what the fuss was all about. 

He finds himself all alone in the center of the bay, the green light gradually disappearing into the haze.  Gentle breezes mix with the salt water to tuft his light hair into irregular shapes.  No one beckons him home for supper today.  In fact, he senses that he has no home, at least as others might define it. 

He knows only the home he creates inside himself in quiet moments; the steady rhythm that soothes and delights his soul.

The wind picks up and the tiny sail he has hand-crafted from the fabric of his mother’s skirts and the wood from his father’s shop comes to life.  Sitting up on his knees, the little sailor twists around to find a direction in which to nudge his board.  East or west, by the North Star or the South Sea, he is the sole navigator.  And it is clear to those on the shore that this sailor answers to no one but the wind.