I found myself humming to the sound of the old man's voice rolling across the water as she sailed onward. I ran my fingers along the weather grain of the old railing as she sway gently beneath my feet. The salty breeze was sprinkled with the smell of trees and green--of land. Seagulls hovered overhead, suspended in the wind blowing inland.
I looked at my hands again--my weapons, my tools, my means of living--they were dirty, calloused, strong. Months of climbing riggings, mending ropes and sails have hardened more than just my hands. My leathered cheeks are now just as smooth and worn as the railing; the hair on my face now coarse like coils of heavy rope, like the unforgiving winds that pass over my tanned body every day. My muscles are tight and strong, and they assure me that I can handle any loose cannon or surprise storm that comes my way. But I haven't gotten this far by myself.
This floating piece of wood has become the dwelling of many others like me, others who first set foot on this deck many moons ago as young boys seeking adventure and experience. We all agreed to this voyage, strangers brought together on one boat. But we are no longer strangers trying to survive harsh winds, heavy storms, bad food, and scurvy; we are sailors--brothers--pressing on through rough seas and impossible odds; we are weathered and weary, but stronger and wiser.
And now, with the shore growing larger as we draw near, I will be separated from this ship and from these men for the first time. Once united against wind and waves, we will go our separate ways. I imagine some will inevitably board another ship and return to this life; some find the smell of salt water and the rhythmic rocking of the waves as the beating of the heart, and the sight of an endless horizon is worth the broken backs and the soggy meals. But the rest of us will return to our homes and our lives before to become carpenters, blacksmiths, and farmers once again.
The raw power of a sudden squall no longer sends shivers down my spine but a life outside of this wooden railing does. The rolling, unpredictable nature of the sea that has become my home stands worlds apart from the solid, unforgivingness of the shore. If I am no longer a sailor, then what am I? What am I do to? Where am I to go?
But I take comfort in knowing that the young boy who departed is not that man who will return. Yet I still hold the childish hope that nothing will have changed when I return home, knowing full well that I am the one who has changed. When I return to solid ground again, it will be just as the day I first put the leather of my boot to the deck on which I now stand--it will be a new ocean for me to explore. Being land-locked won't be so bad. My legs are strong; they will grow accustomed to it again. The thought of fresh wages soon to be filling my pockets doesn't hurt my optimism either.
The singing began to drift away with the wind as her mass of wood and sails slid into the docks. Weigh anchor boys, pull and tug on the old ropes once again, for old time's sake. This deck, these sails, this ship will not be lost to me. But brothers are hard to find.
With the old shanty still ringing in my ears, I gathered my belongings and joined the rest as we walked single-file down the gangplank to set foot on a new stretch of wood.
"I thought I heard the old man say...":
