photo by Andrea Huss
He is in too much pain to care what brings him up from the dark. His whole body feels bruised, numb and twisted. His spine and limbs are getting painful revenge for whatever way he crumpled, unconscious. As he tries to orient, these first few seconds feel slow but dizzily accelerate. Before his questions cascade, before he pries his eyes open, something in his gut is heavy beyond all experience. It informs him with terrible certainty that something is wrong, unbelievably wrong, that it will crash in on him, that there is nothing he can do about it. Where does this information come from? How could his senses learn anything while he lay near dead?
SHANGHAIED
I wrote the first chapter of this book as an exercise for a writing class. That chapter “sat in a drawer” for fifteen years while life ensued. Picking the story up after my wife died, chapters appeared on the page that surprised me until I realized that I was writing about a character stolen from his life when my life felt stolen from me. I didn’t know how either of us would find our way back from “out there,” from horizons of grief.
As a lifelong sailor, I thank voyaging for the metaphors and perspectives it gives and as a widower, I navigate through a very changed life. But we all face change and loss. Feeling “at sea” and making your way “back” can be a hero/heroine’s journey for anyone. The winds are with you sometimes and other times against. Sometimes you are beaten and others you are loved. When you’re lucky, beauty finds you.
If I write my experiences down as memoir, the story is about me. But when I spin them into this tale and these characters, this story may be about all of us.
With nightfall, their world turns pitch black. The wind screeching in rigging reaches a maniacal tone. Deep in the belly of the storm, the continuous shriek is unnerving. It threatens to drive you raving mad. Covering your ears doesn’t help. Some of the men scream back, only proving how small and unheard they are. Still, they scream.
- Shanghaied