Gateway to Europe

We are on a boat, taking a trip from the dock, around the peninsula, right back to the dock.

He told me why, but all I cared about was getting away from my life for a few hours. I can count the times I've been on a boat on one hand, and while it's not my favorite thing to do, I never turn down the chance.

I like to stare off the edge, ignoring everything around me and behind me. I look out as far as I can, and wonder what my life would be like if I were anywhere but here. It's easy to get lost when I'm looking out at nothing.

The sound startles me back into the dream I was having* years ago, the one where nothing happened but it stayed with me still. The one where I could hear little clicks, but didn't know where they came from. Now they come from the captain's wheel, the wind beating the sails, and the ocean waves lapping the boat.

I hear music on the wind but we're nowhere near land. I grasp the railing and make my way around the hull of the boat, down the other side, trying to keep my nausea at bay. The downside of not going on boats often is I always forget how seasick they make me.

There is a man singing at the back of the boat. If it were me, I'd feel raw and exposed and insecure. But he's looking out to sea, singing as if no one else were around. I prefer to stand at the front of the boat where the wind whips my hair and steals my breath, but I want to hear his song.

They say we're going to build a bridge connecting nowhere in particular with where no one wants to go.

I lean against the railing and turn my face away from him. He doesn't seem to care if anyone is watching or listening but I want to be invisible.

335 words

*from "The Glass Essay" by Anne Carson