Friday, June 11, 2010

Sailing (Sence of the City)

I am not writing this on the boat. I am not turning with the wind and the waves of the sea. I am sitting at the farm with the ocean of green grass and songs of the birds. It's a farewell visit, before my long trip.

As you are reading this, I am fighting the big waves, or I'm tying up a loose sail, or I'm wrestling a big fish on board, or I'm not doing much of anything. I don't know what I'll be doing. This is all new to me. I don't know what to expect or what to prepare for. All I know for sure is that it will exceed my own thoughts.

I have been reluctant to talk about the trip. I've been worried about what people will say. There is a type of person who can sail, rich. And I'm not used to associating myself with the upper class. Rich people don't eat Ramen Noodles for dinner, but the poor rarely get to learn which is the port side.

I'm uncomfortable in this position. I stutter when people ask me what I'm doing for the summer. I look away, turn a bit red and smile; and then I say "Well . . . " After I tell them, they say, "That's amazing." But, in their head, I know they are saying, "Must be nice." Maybe not, maybe it's all in my own head. But I'll still think it and still get embarrassed.

I'm sure, once I get there--on the boat and out in the water--I'll forget all about my discomfort. I'll get engrossed in the weather--the sun or the wind or something. I don't know. Snow maybe?

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