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Me and my crew first set sail at around mid day, June 4th, 1919—still light out with the sun high in the sky like a trophy of warmth. The day was warm, not too hot, but the perfect temperature that would be just right for everyone in the small town to go swim or fish out near the shore. The air was salty, and some other smell that could only be described as nostalgic, a smell that when you try to explain it you can’t, a smell you tell people from seas away, “you’d have to be there and smell it to understand.” When we were leaving, everyone in the town said goodbye, gave our old wooden ship their blessings and made sure we had enough food and water for the trip. Now, our ship was older, but it was strong, never let us down before so we didn’t worry about getting a new one anytime soon— further more, it always was funny when kids from far seas thought we were pirates due to how the ship looked.
On the water, my mates and I were happy as can be. We loved the sea, especially exploring it and getting to meet all the people from different places. At first, we had been laughing and singing “Drunken Sailor”, as we in fact were drunker than any passed out man at the tavern back at the town would be. Even though I was intoxicated, I strangely still remember everything that day, after we had sung, and drank our poor little explorer hearts out, we all decided to go to bed. Everyone except me though, I always stayed up later than the others. I could never sleep after drinking as much as I did— I always got nightmares that I couldn't handle, even as a grown man, I just couldn’t.
I was standing at the Forecastle deck, a small tin of water in my hand, trying to sober myself up. But looking at the sky, I didn’t know if I had actually wanted to. With my vision that was distorted and blurred, the stars looked like a sea of fire bugs, bright and shining proudly. The smell of the sea only added to the comfort I felt. That boat had been my mates and my escape, even if we had good lives, the boat and the sea had always felt like a place where we could be free. A place that felt like a dream, felt like we could do anything and not need to worry about being reprimanded. We were all young, stupid adults, in our beginning and mid twenties, not worrying about anything, and I wish I could just go back to that time—to when me, and all of my friends from childhood could drink like drunkards. Many jokes were passed around, and their laughter was like children's, their cheers were louder than the shots of a gun at a celebration.
The morning after we all drank our tongues numb, everyone was hungover, heads pounding and a good bit light. It made me laugh, even though we all felt worse than a seagull after a storm, we were happy. We were just happy to be alive, together, and to get to experience new people. After we gathered our bearings, and after my mates got slightly less hungover after drinking water, we were back to smooth sailing. We were going northeast, towards an island that was even more secluded than our own. Upon arrival I had been talking to my ‘first mate’ Jackson. He was one of my first, and closest friends. And, he was also the man I fell in love with. Being the time it was, and since we had lived in such a small village, two men being together romantically really wasn’t liked, let alone common. So I had made sure to always keep the feelings to myself–after all I wouldn’t want to lose a friendship since childhood over silly feelings I had. Me and Jackson had a simple conversation about the fact that everyone probably drank more than last time after he spoke up about how the dark bags under my eyes looked worse. Now don’t get me wrong, despite the dark bags I still looked young, didn;t have a single grey hair on my curly mess of black, and I had no wrinkles. I was always happy to, but ever since my mates and I started on these adventures and drinking, I had grown used to the darkening bags under my eyes–even though I got poked and prodded by the men about it a lot.
We arrived at the small island a few hours after everyone woke up, it was around mid day, the same time we had left. I was glad that it was only a day's journey. I liked longer ones, but shorter ones were better after getting so tuckered out after the fun of meeting all these new people. We settled down in a small house that a kind woman let us sleep in, thankfully it was large and could fit all of us. After putting our sleeping stuff in the rooms we were ‘assigned’, we all went out and all my mates decided to talk and get friendly with the people from the island. But, I decided I wanted to map out the island, take note and maybe illustrate some of the plants that are different from the ones at home. I wandered off into the green lush of the woods behind all of the houses, a small leather home made journal in my hand and a pencil in my pocket. I saw a lot of beautiful things that day, it was sunny, just the right amount of clouds and the perfect temperature. There were some beautiful flowers I saw, in full bloom and had beautiful colors, well now thinking about it the flowers were mostly pink, but the different shades were beautiful.
I remember I found a perfect spot, it was a rock, smooth on the top like people had sat on it a million times before me. It was in a clearing, with the sun on my tan skin and shining on the flowers. They were in groups, small flowers turned to look like a little sphere of pink, the petals a little sharp. I made sure to prop myself up perfectly, lining my hands up and making sure I could get the image in my head just right so in that moment and then on I wouldn't forget.
When I finished my illustration, the sides of my left hand and my fingertips were smudged with glinting silver. I always moved the journal around and never lifted my hand so the side of it is grey half the time. I used to use my fingers to smudge and blend shadings into the drawings as well. Jackson always told me to not touch him whenever my hands were like that. I walked back to the small area, I didn’t even have to fully come back on the path before I heard my mates. They were loud, and sounded like rowdy birds in the morning with no end. That night we all ate and sat around a fire with the people from the island, we told stories of our past adventures and they told us theirs. Not a lot of them had left their island but the ones that did were glad they had met others like them. I remember this one man, his name was Sebastian, he suggested some places for my mates and me to go after we would leave and go back home. I remember I wrote them all down, and the direction they would’ve been from our home. I know my mates were excited, they would’ve loved going to the island we were told looked like a bone.
The night before we left went by like normal, my mates and I went about it like no other. I was fishing, getting food after some of the locals asked in a favor, and who was I to deny, the people gave us nothing but a warm welcome. When I was fishing, my mind got a little lost in the clouds, and in the smell of the sea, I ended up thinking about Jackson mostly, thinking about how nice it would be to just be able to get to love him, for him to love me back even though I knew I had no chance, Jackson was straighter than the line where the sky and sea meet. I don’t remember when I first realized I loved him, but I know it's been since we were teens, that kind of one sided puppy love. I had myself wishing I could just walk along the beach, and take short boat rides, just me and him. But, I knew so deep down in my heart and soul, that I would never get the love from him given back to me, he liked women, I liked him.
I had been fine with holding it in, I never let the times where I’d stare at the stares late into the night crying and begging whatever gods above would let me wake up and be a woman, a woman that he would love.
I guess I must have dozed off, or zoned out more than usual, because what brought me back out of the sea of thought was a warm, tanned, and rough hand on my shoulder, Jackson's hand. He told me that the locals were throwing a small party for us–since we were going to leave in the morning. I nodded to him, told him I would be right there and asked him to save me a seat. He clapped me on the back, saying something that's a distant muffle now, before he walked away. It was a bit darker, but bright enough I could still see the fish. I guess I instinctively took off the fishing line while in the clouds. I grabbed the fish, hooking my fingers in their gill flaps, a familiar feeling from the many times I've fished with my mates. The fishing rod was in my other hand. It would've been nice to have at least one open hand but I didn't care at the time at all. After I got back and gave the rod back to the owner, and the fish to one of the locals, I walked off to do what? To this day, I don’t even know now.
But, as I walked off the path I walked on and off many times, I went back to that clearing that I found, with the beautiful flowers and perfect lighting. It was darker, the moon was just a bit higher than the sun, but the sun was visible, painting the sky beside it with beautiful yellows and oranges. When I was back at the clearing I sat back down on the rock I ended up sitting on daily, except this time, I didn’t have my small journal, didn’t have stains on my hand. I was just sitting there, watching the flowers, as if I was waiting for them to move, to tell me something. I don’t know what came over me that night, but I stood and picked one of the flower bushels. Jackson always liked more bright and colorful flowers.
Even when we were younger, I always gave him flowers so I didn’t think it would be any different this time. I did not, think.
I came back from the clearing and to the small house I had been allowed in, me and Jackson shared a room, just the two of us. Luckily for me–at the time, Jackson was there, in the room. I don’t remember what he was doing, but I held the flower out to him, looking at his shaggy blonde hair, rough but warm tan skin, and lily pad green eyes. I then spoke up, starting the conversation I would end up never forgetting.