I open the window reluctantly. Hanging clothes sway gently under the afternoon sun. Beyond, the city looks like being stitched together. They say the city reflects its people. Sometimes I wake up from the haze of life, unable to recognize who I truly am. I haven’t found it yet. I wonder if I ever will. No, I’m sure I will never find it here. In this city. On this island.
That’s when I close the window, cut myself from the physical world, and let my spirit wander. It has happened many times ever since the shackles of the past have been proven guilty and loosened. I hope the quest never stops.
One thing’s for sure: We always long to sail toward a quieter place, from cloudy and bustling Plymouth to the deserted and monotonous Cape Verde. Across the stormy tropical Atlantic to the shelter of the Brazilian rainforest. Along the east coast of Patagonia, past the Strait of Magellan, till we reach the fjords of Torres del Paine on the west. Bigger than a lake, gentler than a river, the water carries the Beagle on the way. The barren, rocky mountain range moves in slow motion. The sails hang low, but the masts stand tall. Lying lazily in the yawl, located at the center of the deck, but somehow being ignored by most of the crew members, I turn my gaze to the snow-clad Cordillera, thinking. Which is more magnificent, the mountains or the adventure?
I sit up, rest my head on the gunwale, and ask Mr. Dawin, who leans against the booms and spare spars tied to the railing, drawing something. He replies, without looking up, that it’s the kelp forest for certain.
“A simple reason,” he continues, putting a dot with excessive force on the paper, “is that the kelp can reach up to 40 meters.” That’s more than a number if you compare it with the Beagle, which is only 27 meters long. Not to mention the strength of its short roots grabbing only on surfaces of rocks, and its ingenious features of bubble-like gas tanks, which help the seaweed stay close to the water surface, the fact that its dark and shiny blades can be seen from a distance saves our ship from being wrecked……”
He goes on. I lie down again and watch the reflection of sparkles on the white sails, ready for a sweet dream. Unfortunately, the sound of footsteps appears on the gangway, and within seconds, I am discovered by the second mate, whose ability to detect laziness is as sharp as predators. He orders me with a hoarse and impatient tone to coil up some of the rigging at the forecastle, as though forgetting that this was done just one day before.
I jump into the ocean before anybody can stop me. My body is immediately hit by the coldness of the water. I reach my arms and legs, kicking and pushing the water, steadying myself. My fingers are tangled with something smooth and soft. I open my eyes and see in the murky blue shot by beams of green sunlight, float several eerie, brown pillars of kelps. Moving forward, I hold the stipe of one of them and am amazed by the strength of the plant. It reaches downward to the bottom rocks I can not see, and as I sway with the seawater, the kelp shows no sign of breaking down, as if a giant hand grasps mine and will never let it go.
A seahorse appears from somewhere behind the forest. It flutters its tiny fins and gets closer, its body straight as a pen. Eventually, it stops at the kelp I’m holding on, and curls its body around the base of one of the blades. The kelp carries both of us like a sea cradle. I wait motionlessly until I can no longer hold my breath.
The Beagle has sailed away. Nobody seems to notice my absence. I decide to stay here and play for a while, before catching up.
Today is a tranquil summer day that displays all shades of blue.
River on Baltic Sea 
發表留言