Reboot

There was no way to know what was going on out there in the world and I was stuck on the ocean going nowhere because the wind had died completely three days ago. What happened? Who was left alive? Was there still fighting going on? I was sidelined, scared to death and frustrated. I checked the radio repeatedly, but nothing yet. I paced. I drank coffee. I dove. I swam. I went deep.

At night, the warm air drifted off the cold ocean and slapped my face with wet as I paced the deck. The softer sounds, echoes of echoes, the secrets living sideways in the dark gave me goose bumps. I tried not to think how small I was compared to the ocean. The dark of the night sat on the still, black water, the limit between them only visible when the moon permitted it.

When the sun went down, I was disoriented, frightened. I felt that fear that hits you the second after diving in a murky lake, in that kind of darkness, you’re never completely sure of what might be under your bed. When you’re alone in the dark, thoughts can bounce around in your head and hit something important.

A single unusual sound could keep me up all night and there are plenty of those on a ship. Pings and creaks, water dripping, small animals or insects skittering, and various whistles and tweaks. Every night I lay in my room trying not to think about the obvious intruder that had to be lurking on deck.

Sometimes you don’t know where to look - inside your own head, up at the bright sky or down at the reflecting waves. My mother used to say that those reflections were angels. That’s why they’re too bright to look at. Angels on waves are too beautiful to look at.

One night, I was sitting on deck, on the starboard edge, and I saw what looked like five green ghosts coming toward me far off on the horizon, in the water or just on top of it; like five fingers coming to pinch me away and finish me off. I stood up and wiped my eyes hard with the palms of my hands; quickly so I wouldn’t keep my eyes closed too long. It was late and I was getting tired and a bit numb and then this vision; an image found only in sleep. I slapped myself awake, I stood up and walked quickly back and forth along the deck. I was scared. I was NOT dreaming. So either it was really happening or I had finally flipped out.

“What the hell is that?” I screamed. Again. Again. “Hey! What is that?” You can

scream as loud as you want when you’re alone, but it’s not very calming.

Just at the point where the ghosts were about to grasp my boat, I realized that each finger of that otherworldly hand was the bioluminescent wake of a dolphin. There were five of them. I’d seen this before in evening waves in the Caribbean. And then I felt stupid. Scared of a bunch of dolphins. Way to go, Ahab.

They were shapeless fluorescent dancers toying with my boat, zipping around and beneath it. I ran around the ship laughing, yelling, trying to catch up with them, trying to say hello. Should I jump in? No of course not. Dark water. Nothing scarier than dark water. I didn’t want to miss any of it and I didn’t want it to end.

But it did end of course. They left suddenly for no reason and the dark bit me again. I took their departure personally. Like an insult. My thoughts attacked me: How do you calculate loss resulting from the absence of witnesses to a singularly beautiful event? How do you calculate love if there is no one to share it with? If a bear shits in the woods and there’s no one around, does it make a sound?

I was lonely.

The next day - still no wind. It was a hot sunny day so I decided to go for a swim. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and it was really hot. I put on a diving weight and jumped in the water. I wanted to go as deep as I could with one breath. Trying to beat my depth record was a game I enjoyed very much. You could see forever down there. Just scary enough to be thrilling. The water was so clear, and so BIG. It made you feel small, but not insignificant. The water touches ALL of you; inside and out. It’s a free, safe, embrace; a life bond, like being inside a large womb. Holding your breath makes it even more sensitive. Stay a little longer; a little too long, see what happens. I tested those limits.

In space, an object will bend space around it towards its center, like an empty sphere in a gelatin cube. It felt the same for me while I was deep. I was bending the water around me. It made me feel better, less alone. I decided to come back up.

Once in a while, about one in twenty dives, I got this special feeling like I could stay breathless forever. For a moment, I felt as if I didn’t need to breathe anymore. I suppose it’s a feeling akin to getting a “second wind” when jogging. I remember floating below looking up at my boat that now seemed so very small, with no particular hurry to come back up, as if breathing was unnecessary, and then the slow, leisurely dance back up. I enjoyed the light show too. When under water, on sunny days, sunlight is smacked senseless by the waves and loses cohesion to create quite the show.

There wasn’t much to see in those waters in terms of life, just small types of jellyfish, the occasional swarm of flying fish and a rare whale or two, mostly at night for some reason. It’s a startling experience to be awakened by the loud swoosh of an exhaling whale next to your boat, or to be hit in the face by a flying fish. I remember asking Jacques if there were sharks in there and he said: ‘No we’re too far away from food sources, but if there were sharks here, they’d be very hungry.’ He said and smiled.

Nothing came out of the radio. I spent my time going over the encyclopedias and maps to try and find a destination. Most deserted islands are not suitable for habitation. That’s why they’re uninhabited. I was hoping for not too big, not too small, not too popular, not too close to devastated areas and there had to be food; at least fruits and veggies. Didn’t want to die of scurvy for lack of citrus. And of course, it had to be nearby, or as nearby as possible. In fact, it would be really nice if I could just crash into my chosen destination because I couldn’t navigate this tub.

There were no computers of course. Well there was mine, I had taken it with me on the boat; but without the Internet, it was just a shiny typewriter with pictures in it.

Finally, a soft breath punched me in the face and startled me into a rage of activity hastened by the pent up energy accumulated through days of waiting. All sails had to be checked and lines had to be tightened. I lost my page, but I was finished anyway. I’d found the perfect place. I had found my destination by accident, under “sanctuaries”. A large island far enough away from the coasts called Tetepare. It was big enough. It apparently had wild pigs on it. And, oddly, it was overrun with cats.

I had spent some time figuring out how to navigate the ship. All the information was close at hand. It’s not difficult. Just point it and lock.

“How many people are on the seas at any one time?” I wondered. Commercial, Navy, pleasure, quite a few certainly. Thousands, maybe even millions? I had no idea. What about cruise ships? Where would they go? In other words, how many people were sitting around right now, thinking exactly what I was thinking, planning what I was planning? Would we all end up in the same place?

I settled down for a couple of weeks of uneventful sailing. I spent the time swimming when possible, watching playful green dolphins, and reading everything I could find on survival tactics and medicine, I found a dusty book on edible flowers and herbs, another on navigation. I kept myself busy because as soon as I’d put a book down I was hit with a wave of nausea that threatened to end me. Desolation. Good word. “Désolé” in French means sorry. “Desolation” takes that much further and it fit perfectly now. It means total destruction, desert, but it’s also associated with sadness and loneliness. So I concentrated on learning about underwater diving, shells, edible algae, fish and the stars.

It made me feel better.