The Moon and Me

The marmalade seas crossed the bow, exploding into the air like wine colored cotton-candy against the setting sun. The wave washed across the teak deck in foam the color of raspberries and pounded into the cockpit where I sat, tiller in hand, with such force, the breath was knocked out of me.

My eyes shut, and when they opened again there was another wave to worry about. I watched it grow over my head and marveled at the same explosion, cotton candy in the air, then water washing across the deck—and me.

Again my eyes shut.

Until the next wave hit.

And the next.

And the next and the next—it didn't stop.

Then there was a moon. Huge. Like no moon you ever saw.

We locked eyes, she and I.

When I felt the water above my chin I felt my life, for the first time, becoming real.

Here it is and there it goes.

This was no accident

My life, or what I took for a life, now ending.

Now real.

It was lonely in the water watching as my boat sunk. It was me and the water and the water and me. Then, for a long time, it was only the moon and me; the water like a third wheel.

And the fishing boat came.

I waved and the little boat blinked and my life came pretty much to an end when they hauled me up.

There isn't much more story to tell.

They didn't speak English on the boat.

They fed me soup.

That's pretty much it.

I'll say again, it was no accident. It was cosmically pre-planned and for a reason: Nothing was ever the same again between the moon and me...

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