I continue on, half drifting, half driving my way between the watery walls of this city sluiceway. Shadows cast by the edifices of man darken my new watery wandering. Then, finally, there is light. More and more as I approach a widening world. Then, finally, hinged and scraping metal walls that separate river from sea swing into sight.
During this birth process, I am squeezed in among the steel, fiberglass and wooden vessels of man — some of pleasure, some of pain. Then, with one last thrust, I can breathe free — admittedly a strange word to use in my present state.
The angular shadows previously clouding the reflected surface above me diminish, and now are gone from sight. No more oddly pitched images of sun off slanting silvered surfaces. The light is now as free as the water.
***
The only objects now above me are the fat, feathered bottoms of Canadian geese and the restless rear-ends of herring gulls. I’m momentarily startled as one of those white-and-gray missiles swoops past my head, chasing a smelt into the depths. The water grows clearer and colder, more pure and unpopulated. The noise seems to recede as well. The murmurs of earthly chatter. The city is gone. Only the sea — that vast, inland sea — remains. Something in me hopes the transition is complete — and permanent.
But what will I do now? I am enjoying my visit immensely. But like a tourist, I know my cash will run out sometime. I’ll have to convert to the currency of my newly adopted country. But where to make the exchange? It’s all so new to me. Who will be my tour guide? Is there a consulate nearby?
But just as my mind is anxiously winding up, a school of Emerald Shiners intersects my way, giggling in mass amusement as they pass. I decide to catch up with them, tiny though they are. Their size surprisingly doesn’t seem to matter to me now, especially considering that thousands of them swirl before me, all moving in perfect symmetry. I am as weightless as they, and they as me. I move when they move, forward, sideways, with some unknown yet persistent direction. Their planktonic food source is their main driver, of course. And, though my eyes are quickly developing a greater appreciation — or should I say disregard — of “large” and “small,” I could not yet focus to the protozoic and diatomic level. That will come with time.
This being my first contact with them, I don’t attempt to communicate. I simply gravitate along with them, like fans at the same big game or shoppers in the same bazaar. They don’t seem to pay me any mind, though I’m not offended by their lack of notice. I am the newcomer, after all.
Then — ffft — they’re gone. The falsetto vibrato fades. I am alone again. A slight swelling of loneliness bubbles up deep within me but fades when an unexpected twist of the current washes me gently sideways from my path, what path there is. The words ‘trackless deep’ flash through my thoughts, with a greater understanding now.
I do notice the light is dimming in the east — its silvery shafts becoming less distinct one from the other. At least that one directional sense remains to my new consciousness. Along with the loss of light comes a loss of corporal energy. My internal clock slows. I know I must soon sleep. The water cools; my body cools. My actions and movement abate. I float, motionless, borne along only with the rhythmic undulations of the new cosmos now surrounding me, now permeating me. For the moment, I am at peace.
Read Chapter Four
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