The Panic is an empty feeling. Days which started at 5:45 AM and ended at 6:30 PM or 8:00 PM or 2:00 AM, now start at 8:00 AM and end at 5:00PM. Those long days were never long enough. There was alway more to do. The short days are never full enough, but they are more tiring.
I think it's all the waiting. Waiting for your food to cook, waiting for a parking spot, waiting for class to start, waiting for class to end, at which point you wait in traffic, wait for more food to cook, wait for the water in the shower to get warm, wait to fall asleep.
There is no waiting in sailing.
Slowly panic starts to build up like salt deposits in all those empty spaces. Until one day your car turns toward the coast like it's driving itself - this wasn't your intention - and two hours later you pull into some lonely turnout where you sit for 15 minutes, maybe 20, and look at the sea.
That's all. You drive home. And as you drive you realize you were looking for confirmation that what you left behind was just something you like, but that's not what happened. The sea was forbidding and empty, nothing likable about it, but the longing was still there. You are a part of the sea, and you are not an amphibian.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Fish Out of Water Part 1: The Glee
Although I've never heard of any research on the subject, I can say with absolute certainty The Glee has been experienced by every sailor who survived his voyage.
You step off the ship and -wow- there are people! They're complete strangers, but, thank God, they are not the same eight people you've been sharing your meager space with. And you just. go. nuts.
You run into the nearest shop to get a candy bar. You leave the shop and find that the 20 dollar bill you were scrupulously saving has been replaced by a plastic bag filled with six candy bars and four sports drinks (nothing like orange gatorade after puking for a few days.) THE HELL WITH IT! YOU'RE GOING TO GET DRUNK AND MAKE OUT WITH-- WHOEVER!
Maybe one of the crew has been here before, and they know a good bar. Maybe no one has, but you can always ask local fisherman, or yachtsmen, or pretty girls who come to giggle and yell "Jack Sparrow!" Or you can just go into the first bar you see. Too fancy? Laugh loudly and leave. A little hostile? Tell the guy next to you that you're a sailor and show him a picture of the boat. (It's on your shirt, or your friend's shirt, or a flier you stuffed in your pocket.) Of course, if the bar's just right, there's already a poster of the boat on the wall, the bar tender has fond memories of the last crew that came through, and he doesn't even get annoyed when you burst into song.
Five hours later, you leave. You give the bartender a 100% tip because you LOVE him and his bar and his town SO MUCH.
The next morning you're hungover, and you're not sure why, as a straight woman, you were flirting with the slutty waitress (oh, wait, yes you are: The Glee. The Glee makes you LOVE EVERYONE.) "Whoever" gives you awkward looks during breakfast.
I firmly believe that sailors evolved with a special safeguard. The Glee simply cannot go on, and it doesn't, but while you have it, you're part of something huge. You're filled with the happiness of every sailor who came before you. 50,000 years ago when the first successful sailor pushed his dugout canoe up onto a beach, he felt The Glee too.
You step off the ship and -wow- there are people! They're complete strangers, but, thank God, they are not the same eight people you've been sharing your meager space with. And you just. go. nuts.
You run into the nearest shop to get a candy bar. You leave the shop and find that the 20 dollar bill you were scrupulously saving has been replaced by a plastic bag filled with six candy bars and four sports drinks (nothing like orange gatorade after puking for a few days.) THE HELL WITH IT! YOU'RE GOING TO GET DRUNK AND MAKE OUT WITH-- WHOEVER!
Maybe one of the crew has been here before, and they know a good bar. Maybe no one has, but you can always ask local fisherman, or yachtsmen, or pretty girls who come to giggle and yell "Jack Sparrow!" Or you can just go into the first bar you see. Too fancy? Laugh loudly and leave. A little hostile? Tell the guy next to you that you're a sailor and show him a picture of the boat. (It's on your shirt, or your friend's shirt, or a flier you stuffed in your pocket.) Of course, if the bar's just right, there's already a poster of the boat on the wall, the bar tender has fond memories of the last crew that came through, and he doesn't even get annoyed when you burst into song.
Five hours later, you leave. You give the bartender a 100% tip because you LOVE him and his bar and his town SO MUCH.
The next morning you're hungover, and you're not sure why, as a straight woman, you were flirting with the slutty waitress (oh, wait, yes you are: The Glee. The Glee makes you LOVE EVERYONE.) "Whoever" gives you awkward looks during breakfast.
I firmly believe that sailors evolved with a special safeguard. The Glee simply cannot go on, and it doesn't, but while you have it, you're part of something huge. You're filled with the happiness of every sailor who came before you. 50,000 years ago when the first successful sailor pushed his dugout canoe up onto a beach, he felt The Glee too.
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