Vagabonds of The Deep

Vagabonds of The Deep

Ever had that dream where you are floating in a semi-translucent, phase-shifted, non-dimensional, time hole, disconnected from the space/time continuum, in your underwear?!

I had that dream once. It was a few nights ago.

The last thing I remembered was snuggling into my king-sized bed with my head nestled gently into my heavy feather pillow, my over-sized down comforter engulfing me in a perpetual nocturnal bliss.

The next thing I knew, I was floating in a void of non-existence; a ‘non-event mass with a quantum probability of zero’, to borrow the only description I can comprehend from the British comedy series, Red Dwarf.

And to top it all off, I was there in my pasty white boxers; the ones with the hole in the rear, no less. It was laundry day and all of my other unmentionables were stuffed haphazardly in my laundry basket waiting to be folded and put away. So I was wearing the only worn out pair of boxers I had. How was I supposed to know that that night I would awake to find myself in a trans-dimensional rift? These things always happen when you least expect them.

So there I was, the unwitting guest of an alter-dimensional plane, trying as best I could to curl myself up enough to cover the tear in my shorts.

That was when things started to get weird.

See, I woke up at that point. The dream was over. I slowly opened my eyes and stretched out in bed, feeling the first rays of the morning sun bathe me in warmth and light. Except, it turns out it wasn’t the sun; and it wasn’t my bed.

Confused, I looked around quickly, trying to get a bearing on the unfamiliar surroundings. I found myself lying on a white cast-iron bench with a couple of cotton pillows and no over-sized down comforter. I was still bare from the waist up, though I had at least managed to secure a pair of jeans to cover my immodesty. A soft blue light drifted down around me from somewhere up above, though I could not make out its origin. My long, dark hair floated up to hover around my face.
It was then that I realized where I was; the bottom of the ocean.

Sand sifted slowly back and forth among patches of green seaweed beneath my feet. Bubbles of oxygen escaping from air pockets beneath the ocean floor climbed gracefully towards the surface, some in groups of two or three, others making the journey alone; vagabonds of the deep.

The elusive bubbles of air suddenly reminded me of my own need for oxygen and I realized that I had been holding my breath for quite some time now. In a hasty panic I frantically kicked my legs to and fro, propelling myself upward towards the soft blue light, chasing the vagabond bubbles.

I experienced a strange sensation of jealousy at that point towards those air bubbles. All I wanted was a fresh breath of oxygen, to breathe deep the molecules of life; and these selfish little suds were hogging it all. They had nothing to worry about. They were not in danger. They were nothing but oxygen; surely they could share a little with one who needs it in order to survive?

The absurdity of being jealous of a pocket of air did not occur to me until much later in life. For the time, all I could do was kick; and pray.

The closer I got to the surface, the more smothered I began to feel. My lungs were burning, my vision clouding from lack of oxygen—the air bubbles’ fault—and every muscle in my body screamed in agony. My jeans, which I had been so grateful for moments ago, were now weighing me down. I slid them off quickly and watched them sink back down to the cast iron bench. So much for my modesty. I felt my consciousness slipping; my body was slowly shutting down. It was all over. I was going to die.

I felt the icy grip of death grasping for my soul and found myself suddenly at peace. Acceptance began to fill my bosom. It would be alright if I died. I’d led a good life. I held no regrets. I even found myself forgiving the little vagabond bubbles for not helping me in my most desperate hour. It was ok.

My mind began to flash images like a PowerPoint slide show of things I had done in my life; and things I had yet to do. The events past were merely fond memories; old friends; former loves; nothing to regret. The events I'd miss out on were easily dismissed; marriage; children; movies I’d not seen; books I hadn’t read.

The thought occurred to me then, almost in passing, that if I died then, I would never read the final Harry Potter book, which was due out later in the year. This realization jarred me.

I suddenly found myself kicking hard, fighting against the darkness, staving off death. How could I die without finishing Harry Potter? Without knowing what happens to those poor, ill-fated children and their magical friends? It was unthinkable. I could not die; I would not die. I would fight until my very last ounce of strength gave out. I would reach the surface. I would read the final Harry Potter!

Struggling, battling, reaching, I kicked and kicked, stretching my hand out as far in front of me as possible, hoping, praying to feel it break the surface of the ocean. Finally, in an instant, I felt a cool breeze blowing against my hand and I emerged, gasping desperately for air, from the depths of my over-sized down comforter on my own bed.

It had all been a dream. Just a dream; and I had nearly drowned in a king-sized sea of down and fabric.

Maybe I should have stuck with the twin bed.

Word Count: 990