The Boat

The man in the boat drew a deep breath, and he started rowing. His arms were wiry and the muscles beneath, stretched his skin thin with every stroke of the oars. He was rhythmic with his strokes. He wasn't in a hurry, for he had made this trip many times before.

To get to the island, one had to cross at times what appeared to be a calm lagoon, and at other times it would appear a tumultuous ocean of waves crashing one over another. The sea was calm for the man on this particular trip, and he thought he knew why. Or at least, he hoped that this time something was different. It felt different. A sensation in his heart he hadn't felt in an eternity began to rise up in his throat.

He was halfway to the island when he saw the fin. It was just a speck at first and then it grew in size to be nearly 5 feet in length and that when he noticed the waves. The sky was darkening and all around the row boat water was beginning to crash in. The deep was going to swallow him once more. As it did every night. This would be the end and he would never make it to the island.

For a brief moment, he thought about giving up, about letting go and succumbing to oblivion. But then, a flash of white and brown caught his eye.

Something was on the island. Nothing had ever been on the island before. The few times he'd made it across the water and to the edge, all he'd ever seen were black rocks and trees taller than buildings. A forest that looked ominous and impenetrable. But there it was again, something small, flitting from tree to tree.

The man knew he had to get there. This was his last chance, and after all these years of trying and crossing this ocean, he couldn't let it slip away.

But there was the fin again, closer to him this pass than the last. He rowed harder and faster. His body being tossed around in the boat and his arms feeling like they were going to tear apart. He felt closer, when he looked up he knew the island was right there and that he was going to crash into it with the nest wave.

And then there was the fin and teeth tearing and ripping and he could feel himself being thrown upon the rocks and out of the abyss and familiar, into the unknown.

The man slowly opened his eyes, and the storm that he had seconds before been engulfed in, had stilled. The sky was a warm, light-peach color, and these waters, previously trying to tear him apart and pull him under, were calm and smooth as glass. In fact, as he tried to stand and gaze at last upon the island, his ears noted that no sound at all was there. It was as if, suddenly, he could no longer hear the world around him or perhaps the sound in this world had been suddenly taken away but some impossible force.

Silently, he strode up the beach, his white shirt and dark pants wet from the boat. Then, again, out of the corner of his eye was movement. A small bird, a brown and white owl was stretching it's wings in a tree high above him. It had a white face framed with a dark ring and jet-black eyes that reminded the man of the ocean he'd just crossed.

It was something new. Something he had not seen in so many years. A sign.

The owl took flight once more and slowly started circling down to where the man was gazing up. It was beautiful and graceful and he knew what it meant. It was time. Time to wake up. Time to go home.

The man from the boat followed the owl as it flew around to the other side of the island. And the trees began to look smaller. There was the beach on the other side where the sand was soft and white and warm.

The man looked across at what might the horizon and saw the sun kissing the water's edge gently. Was it dawn, or perhaps dusk. He wasn't sure, but he knew it was time to go. A soft noise could be heard from somewhere, but he didn't know if it was his hearing coming back or something inside his head. "Can you hear us? Sir, what is your name? I think I've got a pulse."

And so, with one last look at the island and the owl, the man went home.