The One – Song 6: “Weighing Anchor” Segment 3

Originally published July 22, 2019...

Finally, as you will soon see, our characters make their “escape.” Have you ever actually made and “escape” of any kind, especially when you were young and especially if you disliked your home town? We will also soon discover the attitude and personality differences between the two – Hart is down-to-earth and practical. The protagonist appears side with fantasy and less with the concrete matters at hand. Are there other viewpoints they might have had? Are they complementary? Do you find yourself attracted more to one than the other.

 

So, it happens three days later when we

announce we have found a boat and will try

to find the owner upstream. No one stops us

asks questions or raises protests – saying  

“Seems like the best thing to do if you want.”  

So, we simply walk away – walk away

            run away to our boat with ten days’ stores 

So, finely provisioned, we drift downstream

                                                away from Chickopee and into dream

“Well, that was easy,” I say as we drift

            with the current, steering only to miss

                        logs and sandbars and beds of river weeds

“Yeah. Why not?” says Hart as he pulls on oars

“I can’t get over how easy it was”

“You’re not hungry or cold yet,” all he says.

            Hunger? Cold? Such things are far from my mind

             Summer has started and provisions stored

                        We have clothes and blankets.  Who could ask more?

                        Freedom makes me lightheaded and giddy

Hart stays somber like a sailor on watch

We float past farms and fields, a few small towns

At sunset we pull off into the reeds

Blankets and canvas laid out in the boat

I lie awake after Hart, staring up

            through flushed rustling leaves to the wide-mouthed stars

Crickets and frogs spill continuous songs

            streaming up to join white light, and I am

                        one in this silence with all this rich noise

As I reach the flat edge of sleepiness

I think how long it has been since I’ve tried

            to recall my dreams – not since Jani left

I notice.  It’s time. Tonight, I will . . .

. . . diving deeper than I have ever been

            the sea’s weight presses me like a great stone

            Hand over hand I follow anchor chain

                        down      down      deep to the floor of the green sea

                                    the steel links are molten hot on my hands

                                                but do not scorch me as I hold them firm

At hull-crushing depth where green fades to gray

            I find jagged anchor claws clutching ground

My ship rocks above – rigged ghost floating pale

Disarmed dreadnaught, tethered under folded sail   

I wake with a jolt.  The night’s gone quiet

            except river ripples against the boat

All of the day’s joy sinks bleak and listless

            into opaque water at this dusky hour

This is no ship.  This river is no sea.

I can’t go home.  Why is this not easy?

The dreamed-up ship and the boat where I sit

            rock sluggishly bow to stern nodding ‘yes’

Hart snores softly beside.  How can he sleep?

He should be awake!  He should console me!

Get hold of yourself, I say silently

            It is just the dark.  It is just a dream

No, this is different.  This is what is real,

            says that assured truth-telling voice inside 

I can’t go back.  I can never go home

You’ve never been home.  That is why you left,

            says the patient, unseen speaker again

I sit up clutching my knees to my chest

Hart mumbles something and rolls over flat

“I have wanted this all my life,” I say

            under my breath trying to touch truth’s core

But you have never lived this life ‘before,

            comes the gentlest whisper soothing my stress

I will live this now, I pledge to myself

I sit watching the summer river flow

thinking this same water touched Chickopee

                        and now I see it and, in a moment,

                                    gliding south it becomes wider and brown

Sleep is gone and so I watch the sunrise

            and I listen to Hart’s soft dreaming sounds

                        wondering if he walks on some firmer ground

The morning of the second day the sun

broils up immense in shimmers and cloud-streaks

the still air wet and heavy on our skin

Sweat beads on our foreheads and on our necks

“I’m hot –   I’m going for a swim” I say 

            to Hart who lies with hands behind his head

            blinking himself into some wakefulness

“Okay,” he croaks and yawns from his damp bed

I stumble to shore over roots and weeds 

            to a private place within tall bushes

            where I can relieve myself unnoticed

Crouching there, I see a spider spinning

            webs hung with tiny droplets of diamond

            water – spider busy repairing night’s

            damages to its fragile home – its place –

            suspended here where any beast or wind

            can instantly deconstruct the many hours

            of eight-legged labor – but inside spider

            spins webs for a delicate dozen abodes 

How rich in homes this thin-legged spider

and I squat here having not even one

Elimination done and dug, I leave

            and do not disturb the wealthy spider

At the river’s edge I strip all my clothes

            drape them carefully on dry gray boulders

I slip quietly beneath brown water

            where I swim blindly in yellow-green light

River water brushes silky fingers

            through my hair and over arms, chest and thighs

The river is my fluid perfect skin

            blending, shaping river-robe as I swim

I surface and tread water looking back

            and as intended, I can’t see our boat

I could be a water creature gliding

            in summer light – naked, needing nothing

            that this streaming river does not provide

My body cradled by this silky stream 

            yearns deeply for fins and tail, gills and scales 

I dive again, stroking hard for bottom

I lay my back along the river bed

            mud-holding weedy edge with hands and feet 

                        – oh, to lie and to breathe here and to sleep 

                        with only flooding pressure as I weep

Lungs expended, I must break the surface

As I burst to air, I see no purpose 

            to another bottom dive – all too brief –

I am not a fish.  This is not the sea

I breaststroke back to shore wincing tears back

            about my limitations to be free

I shake off the water, put on my clothes

            and return to the red boat where Hart eats

            a large green apple.  I grab one myself

            and join him.  We crunch in noisy silence

            until he says, “Let’s go.” and I agree

We pole to the river-running channel

Still no wind and sun rising full and hot

Ship in my head and this boat that is not

Once in the channel, we sit slumped, with oars

            drawn in and laid at the bottom of the bobbing boat

Current pushes us side to side, off straight

            carrying us wherever such currents go

                        rhythmic lapping on both sides of the boat

I raise up squinting at the river banks

                                    where a blaze-coated fox bends, lapping too

I turn back to center now eyes narrowed

“What’s that?” I ask Hart, but more to myself

“What? He says without looking up to see

“No, look,” I say, pointing to a blackened tree

            waterlogged and jutting at an angle

“It’s just a dead tree fallen off the bank.”

“Okay, but have you ever seen a lump

            that size growing on a tree that large?

“I see it!” He is suddenly interested

Unexpectedly, the curious bump moves

            forward heading for the tree’s higher end

The relentless current floats us sideways

            to the tree trunk’s mobile skin and shortly

                        the mound grows a beaked head jutting out from

                                    a two-foot, plated, algae-covered shell

When we draw close to this river dragon

            he snaps his bony beak – extends his head

“Looks like turtle soup to me,” Hart exclaims.

“That’s a snapper, idiot,” I shoot back

The beast again beats its jaws and hisses

            backing slowly down the log on bowed legs

I am glad this would-be dragon does not

            sport wide wings to lift us, four-legs pendant

                        his hard-ridged tail dangling like a rudder

                                    and held tight within his toothless old snout

Such fantastic thoughts take me back to dreams

            And river oceans and great dragon ships 

The reptile slips off the log into water

The river roils with some deadly battle

            Soon the monster surfaces beak around

                        an amphibious rodent, doomed in the jaws 

The rodent flails and squeals held tight thrashing

            as a broad-winged blue heron glides in landing

                        long beak probing surface water, walking

                                    back now nearer shore toward the primal battle

                                                while Hart and I slack-jawed assess the scene

The blue one advances toward the quarrelers 

The snapper’s shell enough to resist the stabs

            Its beak doesn’t let go the shrieking mammal

                        Those jaws built to kill just keep hanging on

                                    while the great blue bird arches and flaps wings

                                                attacking as intended to steal the food

This dual battle takes but few minutes

            as we watch and feel the weight of ages

                        cutting into our chests and on our hearts

Speech impossible, we drift downriver 

The snapper and the heron separate

            as the turtle cracks the small rodent

The blue one wades out and jabs the water

All three recede from view as the river 

            carries us silent southward

After witnessing such natural violence

            we both exhale and shake our heads

“Guess there will be no sail again today,”

            I say trying to sound chipper, cheerful

“Guess not,” says Hart sounding almost downcast

“Well, I’ll take the first turn at oars,” I say

            gingerly taking my station and sculls 

“Sure,” says Hart moving to the red boat’s bow

“Are you always chatty in the morning

            or did that battle din plug up my ears?”

“You’re not used to me when I first get up,”

            Hart stretches and yawns and smacks his dry lips

 “Stop! Stop! Let me get a word in, will you?”

            I make fun of his bushel of ten words

                        but he just stares blearily and snorts once

With this morning phantom’s silence, I start

            to sing a song we learned in school but I’ve 

                        only warbled one line or two when Hart

                                    says, “Stop it.  I can’t think.”  He’s serious

“Oh pardon, pardon, a thousand pardons!”

            I try to take it lightly though I’m hurt

“I like quiet in the morning,” he says

“I like noise. My thoughts are too disturbing”

“All the more reason to listen to them”

“When I listen to them, I go crazy”

“Well, if you never listen to yourself, 

            how will you ever know your mind and thoughts?”

“I listen to myself!” I say loudly

            with too much defensiveness – I’m fearful

                        of where this conversation is going

“So what disturbing thoughts are you having?”

“Never mind,” I say and sulk in silence 

 “Look,” I nod toward the shoreline

            where another blue heron angles breakfast

“Nice bird.  Don’t change the subject,” Hart replies

            “I tell you I’ll give up morning quiet

                        anytime to learn what is in your head.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I quip pulling harder

“This is going to be one long trip, all right”

“D’ya want to get off now and walk back home?” 

I ask because I might if he doesn’t

“Of course not, idiot.  But I do think 

we shouldn’t go much farther arguing

This is a good a time to share darkest secrets”

“So, you start with yours,” I say stubbornly

“Okay, but then it’s your turn after me” 

He wags one finger sternly in my face

 “Here goes. Okay. I woke up so frightened.”

“You too!?” I almost drop the starboard oar

“Aha!  See, this is how it works, my friend.” 

            He slaps his thigh, and his big grin appears

“I say what I am thinking and you change!

            You’re interested – it works in reverse too.

            So, what were you afraid of?”  He’s attentive 

“Well, I’m not sure.  I try not to think much.”

“Here’s a chance to try,” Hart encourages

“No, you first.  You’re the one who brought up fear.”

“All right,” Hart concedes with mock impatience.  

            “I’ve got two points to zero so far now.”

“Not unless you say what you’re afraid of.”

Background:

If it hasn’t become obvious, this story resembles Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn in some ways. Not one of the four (Tom and Huck, plus our two) is a common person. Each reaches out for “the more” that lies beyond picket fences and classrooms. This part of the narrative also appears to reveal much through conversation. (I make no claim to create dialogues that are of the quality Mark Twain fashioned for his characters.) The conversation at the very end of this segment puts a finer point on the differences and complementarities of our two characters. Actually, these two people are both part of yours truly. Part is the adventurer and the disdainer of home towns; the other is more cautious and very practical. The latter person, for example, learned to fly (See last two posts: “Remembering Flight – Parts 1 and 2) by practicing with checklists and protocols. There was a great deal of emphasis on safety. That would be represented by Hart. Our main character, on the other hand, represents the part of me that rode Harleys, sailed big boats, went scuba diving on the Great Barrier Reef, and so on. How can two such different personalities reside in one person, you ask? Think about yourself. Do you have two or more “personalities” or profiles?

Exploration #1: What about our two characters making their “escape?” Do you find their story they tell their parents believable? How old do you think the two “escapees” are? If these were your children, would you let them go? Remember, parents think they will only be gone 2-3 days.

Exploration #2: Have another look at the italicized passage beginning . . . diving deeper than I have ever been . . . and speculate on how the passages such as this do or do not add to the waking narrative.

Exploration #3: How about the snapping turtle? If you haven’t noticed, in this epic there is and will be a series of reptiles and creatures named for reptiles like the dragon fly earlier in the story. They will become increasingly larger – more and more fantastic. What could the snapper symbolize in a literary and a practical sense? Does the violence of the turtle and heron natures have anything to say? Note that the next “song” is called “Snakes and Dragons.”