When will we take our last trip? For the summer, for the season, before the ice comes and covers the water’s surface. Before it is too cold and too windy, and the rain drops hit our faces with such a force I think to myself that they must leave red marks on my skin. I will be polka dotted before we come back home.
Or have we already taken our last trip? Which one was it? I have to think back, trace back in time, flicker through my memory archives to remember. Was it that day where we ran out of motor grease in the middle of the sea, half way from and half way to?
To move, to travel if only twenty minutes, breaks up the straight lines, changes up the pattern, makes me leave a few thoughts behind to make room for new ones. Like, who is living up there, on the hillside of the island with huge glass windows with the blinds down always it seems? And who is that, hopping of the yacht and in mid air saying to the restaurateur “This will make my wife happy!” and is off in a minute with a steaming paper bag, leaving only surges behind and I smile. Whatever works.
Out on the sea, healing in the sense that it makes me present, watching the water, looking for where the waves break to not hit a shallow, looking for the fairway, calculating the speed of the other boats, where to go across and where to follow in their wake. The rhythm of the water, how it moves, changes shape. The scent of the water, the fresh wind blowing through my mind, body, and how it reflects the sunlight, glitter and spark. Leaving to forget, and remembering as soon as my foot touches our bridge again.