By Jackie Leavitt
The sailboat sits alone and empty, rocking back and forth on the ocean’s breath as the sun shines down on its white hull and the red buoy that ties it to place. The wind whines, asking for attention from the wandering-eyed sailor, curious of the fascinating new lands lush with waving palms and sandy shores. Even though this sea dog returns each night to rest his head upon his berth’s bosom, there is a distraction, an eagerness in the morning to abandon ship for the yet-to-be-discovered.
Each port is just a dalliance, the boat whispers to the wind, meant for stories at sea but not for long-term lounging, and soon the sailor will return to me, his first mistress and home. Even though the land is fresh and exciting, while the ship aches and groans as if shifting for a comfortable seat after arthritis has ridden her joints for many a years, she knows her love is inescapable. It’s the type that worms its way into your soul, until, much like the marrow in your bones, you can’t separate yourself. When you breathe, you breathe her. She carried this knowledge with a quiet confidence, knowing.
The seagulls, overhearing the conversation, wiggle in the winds and laugh at the earth’s paltry attempt to steal what we all know belongs not on the solid surface of rock and clay, but on the sway and roll of the water. Already, from their height, they see the longing gazes that shift repeatedly back to the bobbing vessel. Soon the sailor will be galloping along the waves again in his bucking Bueller, with no land in sight.
You can check out Bueller’s blog at No Land in Sight.