A week ago my dad and I took an evening out to go sailing. My dad likes to go sailing, possibly because his grandparents were sailers, and it makes him feel closer to his deep past. As for me, I have always been a woodlander, I like to have my feet on the ground. Occasionally though, you have to accept a little seasickness and do something that’s not comfortable, so I got on the boat.
The coast of Cork is a labyrinth of small islands, jagged rocks, and underwater currents. Growing up in any costal area around here, you learn to respect the sea, because like a sleepy lion, it will turn on you, and it will kill you without remorse if you toy with it.
We set off navigating through a gaggle of silly swimmers from Dublin with their dogs. Rushing a little to avoid getting caught by the changing tide that locks off the bay. On board, there are ropes, and pulleys, and a messy cabin with a cassette player, a NASA Marine solar panel, and other gizmos from the 1970s when the boat was first brought to this bay. There is a GPS system that has not been updated since 2006, but coasts don’t change often in 21 years, and a frutiger-areo interface can still point out the worst of the rocks beneath the waves.
We navigated our way out, chatting and drinking lemonade from cans that you can’t put down because there are no cup holders. I stay on the tiller, watching the rocks, going to the left, and then the right. Then we switch off the engine, its reassuring thunking goes silent, the front sail gets unruffled, and for the first time we are in the hands of infinity, as the wind starts to push us outward. The boat becomes like a baby in a great galloping herd of invisible horses.
It’s a strong wind and the boat leans over, so you have to put your foot across to the other bench to steady yourself as you pick up speed. About an hour out a bumble bee passed, possibly on his way to the outer islands for untapped flowers, or possibly lost, and caught on a breeze he could not control. We decide it’s probably time to turn back but there are still too many rocks. The line between you and a rock is like a dream; they hover past under the surface, hidden, but showered in white foam as the waves brake over them. They are silent and still, but if you touch one, it’s rescue helicopters, a sunk ship, and a risk you may never be home for dinner again. So we decide to pass the outer island and turn around in the open water beyond.
The last rocks come the closest, you steer away from them, but the current pulls you the opposite way. They are all you see, it's just you, rocks, waves, boat and wind, all crushing each other towards their separate wills.
It’s only when you pass that final rock, and you take a moment to look around that you realise what is happening. You are shooting like a bullet into the open ocean. There is no one around you. You see the coast of Ireland and the edge of Europe expanding and receding. You see grassy hills and strong rocks, and little houses start to drift behind you like clouds, and you realise they are letting you go. Everything that is safe, or known or warm; like lunch, and chairs, and love, it’s all behind you. In front of you is three thousand miles of vast eternal ocean, it is storms, and monsters, and air, and infinity. It’s the cosmic moment of stepping beyond all bounds, like an astronaut watching the earth fade behind them.
You are unprepared and you are looking into the face of eternity. Then the boat turns, the sails click, and the wind catches you from the other direction. Infinity is behind you, and the world you know starts to loom closer again as you return home.
I have known a number of infinities in my life, and I once wrote a note that says "the only things worth doing are the things that break your heart and leave you wobbling like a lost child” but I’d like to add that there are days for ice cream along the way, and days for sitting on the sofa and feeling bad about yourself too.
When all the shouting is done, and all the regrets and been regretted, and the longings long passed. What’s left is the infinite ocean beyond and the view of the sunny hills, and the knowledge that once, there was a home and there may be again, but even if there is not, its fine.
To all those shadows that I cannot walk from, and the days I am too afraid to hope for. Like the woodlands and Pangaea, and the forrest fires in the news, and the oil engines that drive sleepy people to home. There is nothing I would wish for and no place I’d like to sleep. The night is coal black and it does not show ripples or reflect wishes, but Mab still finds me there waiting patiently, by the spring where the gorse flowers grow. Streetlamp's still shine on the floor like the rising sun on the Tetrapod Trackway. I wonder who could step out into the endless ocean and not dream that one day, they will keep going.
