Tiny Wooden Craft.

The sea queen takes shifts. When she’s tired, she decides to let the waters still, let the waves sleep. When she’s awake, fresh and new, the waves rise up and greet sailors, they raise up and greet the oxygen. They rise up and push the air away from their wake. Move over, the sea queen bids you to move over.

Behold. A tiny wooden craft sinking up, and rising down, in the middle of nowhere, a waxy expanse of blue, blue, green, blue water. For all the wonder in the world was held onto one tiny little wooden craft. Holding the most important object known to man, woman, and thing alike. Why would such a little wooden craft be responsible for the greatest wonder in the world? It’s so unbearable breakable. So pathetically smashable. A wave could eat the little wooden craft in one gulp.

But nonetheless, the little wooden craft has been trusted to sail the waxy waters, to deliver the most important thing in the world. No one knows. No one knows how important this tiny wooden craft is, no one knows anything more than that it belonged to an old fisherman, an old fisherman who died in his home. Some kind of poisoning, he died alone in a little cabin that rested along the seaside that hung precariously over the edge of a steep cliff. A little cabin that was as pathetic as the boat that bobbed there and here beside the rock staircase.

The boat was away, away, far away from this little cabin and the rock staircase, only in the distance could you see a sliver of land, so distanced from the tiny boat, it was almost a mirage. Wavering and uncertain. The future of a drug addict. The boat was in no hurry to get anywhere. The tiny little craft slowed with every wave. Slowed even greater when the waters were calm, when the wind was non-existent.

One would worry they would run out of food. Plenty of other fish in the sea, as they would say. Some would question whether they would run out of water. The rain was plentiful, cups and glasses and bowls and tureens could not be filled by the amount of rainwater that fell down in daily increments.

The sun that harshly reflected upon the sea water would cause sun damage and heat stroke to anyone unprepared. The occupants of the unsteady little wooden craft were well prepared for whatever would come to them. Rain, heat, sun, stroke, food, human contact. They were well prepared. The family made sure of this. Made sure that there were no leaks. Made sure the food was able to be caught. Made sure everything was well equipped and ready to use.

The sun was blue, and the sky was yellow. The boat was made of water and the water was made of wood. Their thoughts, when they had any, were disarranged and confusing. Ahead, it looked like a dragon swooping when it was only a seagull gliding. In the far, far, away distance, a mountain was erupting. But not really. It was an island’s burp, a tiny rise in the land.

Stars burst into the sky when it was one in the afternoon, and a purple sun peek-a-booed over a hill when it was one in the night. Nothing made sense. What the family hadn’t counted on were the occupants of the tiny little wooden craft becoming insane. The sheer water, the sheer sky, the sheer sun, for so long, become un-pretty, became scary, became foreboding, became a nightmare, became too much for them to handle.

When they spoke, if, the words that slipped from their chapped lips were choppy and made little to no sense. The sun that warmed their skin became too hot, when they tried to share their grievances, they would mumble out nonsense. The other would pretend to understand. The most precious gift, the wonder of the world, became forgotten between the two, it faded into the distance, like something of its caliber does. When forgotten, it’s hard to bring back. It takes time; the occupants of the boat didn’t have time to spare. They had to cling onto whatever sanity they had left. Cling on hard, cling on and never let go.

The boat drifted and rocked, there was no specific destination in mind for the little boat and its passengers. If it were to ever end up anywhere, only bones would be minding the wooden planks that make up such a tiny thing.

The oars to the boat had long since been lost out to sea, they were also drifting. Maybe they’ve found a home with a beavers den, or into a whale’s stomach. Onto the deck of a much bigger boat. Somewhere that is not anywhere near the tiny little wooden boat.

Somewhere to the north of the boat there is a paddle swishing along the banks of a fishery, slapping the side belly of a great cargo ship, unnoticed of the occupants, the ones getting ready for takeoff, department from the docks. No one would notice the paddle until much later. They wouldn’t think much of it. Lost sailors. Common occurrence.

Between the two, one male, one female, the tiny wooden craft lobbed disconcertingly to the right, so far, the female slipped her fingers just a bit off the splinter edge, into the fine wax water.

The male felt his body push against the edge, he could see a female, so far away, he thought. So far. He doesn’t remember how he got here, why he’s here, how long he’ll be there. If he had a sane thought in his vacant mind, he’d wonder why he would agree to do such a thing. Why, why, why? Was he drunk? High? Stoned? Out of his mind?

She’s so blurry. The female herself feels like an enlarged pixel, a smudged blur of colours and lines, nothing else. Not human. Melted skin onto dried bones. No blood, no cells, no organs. The most precious gift floated just above their heads. Too far to be considered easy to reach. It was getting more difficult by the second. It was uplifting every second that they ignored it. Harder and harder to achieve, harder and harder to bring back into their midst, into their grasp, into their hearts.

Their gift, the love they shared for so many years, was leaving them and there was nothing they could do about it. Why would they do something so stupid? What a scam. They said good bye to their lost love, they wouldn’t see it again. They were so scared. So tired. Their bones were turning to dust faster than you could count. They eyes were sinking farther into their skulls. Their brains were withering into a dead pumpkin. Their skin was turning red and chapping. The umbrellas, the blankets, the tarps that were supposed to help them did not help them.

And so it was, everything ended inside a boat, a boat that could break so easily under one wave, a boat that did not carry any meaning once the gift left its presence. It no longer became special, or remarkable. It became the boat of an old fisherman that died so many months ago, it became wooden plants stapled together to hold luggage. The gift, the love the two – the male and the female – held, was no longer there, and thus the boat became obsolete. Just a surface to hold two dying souls.