The place where I bike frequently is surrounded by standing water because of the wet spring we have been having. I love riding by early in the morning and watching the dim light from the sky reflect of the surface of these miniature ponds. Yesterday when I went my usual route I saw three ducks. Their green wings were more beautiful than any emerald I have ever seen. If I could capture green like that into a stone I would have it for my wedding ring.

At any rate, all of this thought about color and water reminded me of a piece I wrote for my creative writing class and I decided to post it here. It is a practice in descriptive writing.

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The Sea

            A constant pressure racked upon me, like being at the bottom of the ocean. The heaviness was not suffocating or crushing, rather just a strange constancy of my surroundings. A clinical feel was everywhere except for in the smell of this peculiar place, in the coolness of the air, the tidiness in every detail of the surroundings, and the smooth touch to every surface: nothing abrasive. Inhaling, I found the most clarifying scent such as that smell of clean air after a rain, but without the smell of precipitation. Looking out at the water, the sea of pale silvery black, I could see the reflection of the “ship” on its randomized mirror surface.

             The entire structure was made of a wood colored a deep brown, almost black; I wondered at what kind of stain could produce such a color, but soon found out that wood itself excreted a sap that hardened into this luminescent glaze after the wood is cut and dried. There were no outlandish baubles or garnishes to the floating home. All of the detailing of the ship was done in simple wood carvings mimicking the shape of the waves. Leather covered soft poufs sat singularly and in groups and could be easily arranged to produce any seating arrangement one wished to have on the deck. Most of the time, however, three or four of us would curl up on the largest one set near the rear of the boat and watch the water we were racing away from rise and fall in its flow.

            Though only a visitor to this sea and a passenger on this boat, I wore the same clothing as its inhabitants. The earthy-red pants and brown tunics were thick enough for those who lived there to feel comfortable in the cool environment, but I wrapped myself in sarong style with cloth of the same reddish tone. When I would fall asleep curled up in the cloth, I would awake to the scent of strange fibers, their natural and unprocessed smell. Even though the poufs were soft and luxurious, I still awoke with odd muscle cramps from sleeping rolled up in a ball. There were no beds to stretch out on, as the people who built the boat did not build it with the intent of sleeping: at most a nap of less than an hour. The hours of the day past half as fast as they do here, and yet these people would simply rest for a few moments if at all.

            There were only two scheduled events a day: the meal and the song. Our meal consisted of a silver bowls with the same designs as the ships carvings full of the shimmering water of the sea. There was no need for further sustenance. Maybe it was the pressure of the air that kept the feeling of fullness all the time; but no matter what it was, there was never a physical hunger felt neither by the inhabitants of the ship nor by visitors of their sea. Fulfillment did not come in sandwich; it wasn’t scooped up with a spoon. Snuggling next to a warm friend, my fellow travelers, and just resting. That was the fulfillment one found on this boat, a resting, warm, oneness with the sea.

(c) M. E. Koenig