CADO [DISCONTINUED]

The Beginning of the Beginning

As my mind leaps from thought to thought, the boat sails over the blue deep. There's no "away" or "towards" if there's nothing else. Seeing that there's neither land to find nor a northern star to follow, I'm sailing for the sake of sailing, pointlessly moving towards nothing, away from nothing, for absolutely no logical reason besides some desperate, instinctual urge to act.

Maybe I can create something somewhere, something to give me direction. The possibilities are endless - islands, their depths inhabited by mysterious, forgotten tribes; ancient cities, stacking high into the clouds and low below the earth; nomads on floating ships; a whole world, at the tips of my fingers. But I don't shape any of these. For now, the only direction I have is to sail away from the ominous clouds. A vain, temporary endeavor.

It seems I don't have full control over my environment. I never willed those clouds into the sky, yet they spread like ink in water. The setting sun casts a halo of pink light around their edges, but even this begins to fade with the passing of time, and night plunges me into its grasp. The sliver of moon is all that lights the choppy sea until the clouds catch it, too, transforming it into a distant, eerie glow above the cloud cover. I'm left all alone on a dark sea with nowhere to go, and despite how much I want to see stars above me, the clouds that seep across the skies imprison any that I could create above their spread.

I sit. And sail. And wait. And feel. I feel the blood surging in my veins. I feel my lungs, expanding and contracting, as I breathe in the dense air. I feel the fear in my chest. The fear of what is to come. Something is on its way. I can feel it.

All is calm.

Then, it hits: waves higher than the sides of my little boat, rain harder than my resolve, winds stronger than my arms. The rain drenches my dark hair. My wet bangs stick to my forehead. The rope that holds the sail steady slips from my hand whenever I feel I've trapped it in a good grip. The tiller tugs against my hand, begging me to turn the boat, begging me to bend to the fury of the winds. All I want to do is make everything stop so I can breathe again but it doesn't stop and it doesn't let up and I can't escape.

    The boat tilts. The sea sprays into my face. I pull the sail tighter, stick my feet under a strap, and lean backwards out of the boat, just like I used to do when I sailed as a kid. This time, the boat refuses to level. I refuse to give up. The churning seas below my back claw at my tiny boat. All I can do is lean back, further, further, further, until

with a monstrous sound,
the sail rips open, and
the boat levels out, and
the winds and waves can do what they will to show me no mercy.

It takes a moment for me to realize that my feet have slipped, and my legs have stuck up, and I have fallen into the churning, cold depths. I claw for the surface before panic can set in. The sea allows me to surface for a moment, just enough to gasp for breath before I see the wave crashing over my head. The sea tumbles me over and over and over until my head spins like a washing machine. I hold my breath, struggling to think until I've already sunk too deep to tell which way the surface is.

I need air. I let out a little to see where the bubbles go, only to find that they float towards my feet. I lunge towards this newfound direction. My legs pump. My lungs strain at their seams. The churning underside of the waves is nowhere in sight, no matter how far I swim. I can only claw at my neck. My lungs beg me to breathe, but I find no air.

The world finally closes in on me. Darkness soaks into the corners of my vision, a blind spot subtly overtaking the center of each eye.

As center reaches out to edge,

I am alone.

I'm determined to live.

I am clueless.

There is air, somewhere,

I am inadequate.

and I will find it.

I never give up. I won't, not now. This is my story. It can't end here, and it won't. My story has a different end. I let go of my neck. I let go of everything. Through hazy eyes, I watch the bubbles drift out of my mouth as I sink, further and further down.

    I do not fear the oncoming darkness. In that place between despair and hope, a story dances across my eyes. Ideas. Images. Daydreams. I focus, feeling that familiar flutter in my chest. My eyes slide shut.

Let this be.

   The water clears from my ears. Wood creaks beneath me. I feel rain on my face and shoulders again. Gritty voices cry out familiar lingo. When I open my eyes, a rough, sturdy ship stretches out beneath my feet. Its reefed, red sails hold strong under the rabid winds. The salt-crusted wood stands firm against the pelting rain, and the waves that crash against the hull never break the boards. Above it all flies a dark red flag with a rough, black border, strung from the top of the thick mast.

There's air in my lungs, as if it never left. I feel fresh and dry, as though I never fell into the sea at all. Sea spray, wind, and rain pelt me from all sides, but I'm not afraid. My hair is long, wild, and tangled; my feet are encompassed in worn, leather boots laced up to the knee; my body is wrapped in a long coat, loose, comfy, faded clothes, and a bloodstained flag. I'm no longer the timid, pale girl in the shapeless hoodie - I'm someone else. My weathered hands grip the wheel that steers this grand, criminal ship.

    I cry out commands, directing sailors every which way. They call me Captain. They have no names - not yet. They have no backgrounds, no defining marks, but ideas storm out of my brain and into their veins, creating names and scars and trophies and limps and peg legs. And under this pelting rain, I realize that I, too, need a name.

    But I can pick one later. It's about time I told a story, isn't it?