Tuesday, November 01, 2005
a piece
There we were
We were stranded in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The saltwater tasted horribly bitter in my mouth, but there was no way that I was going to let you know that. For it was I who had capsized the boat and I could already see the look of disgust on your face from also swallowing a large dose of saltwater.
We had left the west shore of the Atlantic some four weeks priar to our capsizing. By my calculations, we were making impecable time. I remember how you wouldn't step foot into that tiny row-boat without first giving it a name. I then notioned to dub it "The Poop Deck". I laughed. You laughed. We agreed to it. No fuss; no muss.
To pass the time we brought along a couple guitars (you brought your acoustic; I brought my classical), a tambourine, some shakers, and several random games. I tossed Monopoly overboard on the first day out to sea. It's always brought out the worst in me. I didn't want to think that economic inequality could prevail even out on the ocean.
Battleship was by far the life-preserver on this trip (metaphorically speaking, ofcourse, we were never foolish enough to not bring actual life-preservers with us). I lost track of all the days upon days of dueling on our Battleship sets. It was the Special Edition set complete with lights and distorted sound-effects. Often it kept the two of us sane. Other times it would result in us at eachother's throats. There's just something about playing that game on the actual ocean with no land in site that makes it immensely more exhilarating and realistic. Maybe it's the salt in the air or the fact that there's no one within two-thousand miles that can hear you curse after losing. Who knows? We do.
Often we had to set aside the games and do something spontaneous to keep things interesting. Sadly, nearly every single attempt at spontaneousness resulted in awkward silence followed by long periods of napping underneath our umbrellas. I grew tired of this and that is why I flipped the boat over while you were napping. I had other reasons for doing it but I'm not going to mention those so as to not open up old wounds.
You knew it was coming. You knew since the moment the notion of this adventure had been mentioned. You had dreaded it the entire time we were out to sea. How could you set sail on a lengthy trip across the Atlantic in a row-boat and not expect to be plunged into the depths?
As we bobbed and floated in our clown-colored red life-jackets, you wore a grimace of pure agitation. I could tell that it was caused by the mess that had become of your hair due to the flipping and swirling that had taken place beneath the surface of the water. Such is the motion of one who is awoken by a swift descent into the ocean. You have always been so self-conscious. I never truly understood how even while stranded in the middle of nowhere with someone like me, you still had to look properly primped. But then, you always were the better looking of two of us... and never missed a moment to remind me of this fact. It was this absurdity that made the capsizing necessary.
It was a fine mess I had put ourselves in. I've always looked upon it as a moment of glory for myself. Now we had something to do. First, we had to put our boat right-side-up lickity-split. It's odd how when some people hear the word "capsize" they associate it with sinking. Yet, in reality, it simply means that the boat has been overturned. No harm done.
Next, we had to assemble all out food and supplies. Now you remember that none of it was ruined. This was a stroke of genius on both our parts. We stowed absolutely everything in water-proof flotation containers of our invention. You looked upon assembling these things as a minor nuisance. I looked upon it with a simple feeling of cunning and satisfaction at creating an objective for ourselves. Heck, if only you had wanted to we could have had ourselves a quaint little picnic right there on the surface of the ocean.
Now why do I bring this whole situation up? Think, think, think. I seem to have lost track of myself. Oh, right. I was hoping it would rekindle the memory of the first time we found a purpose for rowing across the great Atlantic. We were sitting in the local Tim Horton's, not 2 miles from your house, sipping on some English Toffee cappuccinos. I was telling you how it was about time that something outrageous should happen to the both of us. You decided that it was about time that we made something outrageous happen (oh the irony in that is too much for words). I thought it to be a grand notion but was reluctant as to where we should perform such impulsivity. You replied with, "The only way to get to the right side of the world is to find out which side is the wrong."
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that's a fucking good last line