I don’t feel it, but I am, technically, hanging off the lower half of the planet. If not for gravity I, and the ship I am in, would fall off the world. Would, perhaps, be hurled off into space by the spinning of the earth under us. 

Then again, if not for gravity, there would be no moon, no tides, and these rough and wind-whipped seas would not be rocking the ship, and me in it, so hard that — once I stop trying to fight it — simply laying in bed feels like a continuous and rather aggressive back massage.

We are being pitched about so roughly at times that it feels as if the sea would happily throw us off its back, to toss us up into the wind and rain and then swallow us whole.  A fair number are horribly ill during this passage, but to me it is a grand adventure more than anything else, and I am deeply thankful at how I’ve been spared. (By grace alone, and I pray for healing mercy for the seasick on board.)

In fact, once I get past the initial adjustment, my bigger “problem” (if it can even dare be called that) is how bored I am of the confinement. Absent a port of call, the ship’s many entertainment options simply don’t draw me.  After a while, I would rather just read, though I could have as easily done that at home than here on the far side of the world.

Or I sleep; rocked fiercely and forcefully into long, deep slumbers, shaken to brief and sudden wakefulness — there’s wonder and excitement in climbing up to the window to be awed by the sea’s rage and the spray’s rise —  and then tumbled back into sleep just as suddenly a scant moment later.

More often than not, sleep on this passage is not a quiet respite; it is almost an adventure unto itself.

But when I first crawl into bed, the sheets are cold and unwelcoming, and I find myself longing for the warmth of arms around me. I want to trade the low groans of distressed steel plying angry water that punctuate my nights, for the whispering voice and deep-sleep purring of someone else

Oddly, I could probably have this and more if I wanted it, if only the specifics of that someone else mattered less to me. Two different men, in just the last two days, have expressed interest in my company. At least one of them has badly misread my initial travel-buoyed friendliness… he practically tries to crawl into my chair, leaning to initiate touch any time we’re seated by circumstance beside each other. I distance myself, adjust my demeanor as well as my position; I do not want this from him, nor from any other stranger on this ship.

I’m not lonely. I don’t need company for its own sake.
I don’t want to have a fling; I have never been the “flinging” type.

No, the “someone” of that someone else makes all the difference in the world.

But when it strikes me that what I do want, in my deepest heart — to have a real relationship… to be someone’s first choice to share love, faith, care and passion with someone who chooses me and only me —  is completely beyond my reach, beyond my experience, is in fact beyond any possibility I can even imagine, the grief overtakes me in tears as sudden as lightning and as cold as the rain falling out on the decks.

As quickly as it comes, this storm will pass… much more quickly on both counts than the one outside.


~ by lorakceel on November 9, 2014.

One Response to “Adrift”

  1. […] Adrift […]

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