12.26.2015: The Cryptographer
When my watch ends today, the sun is rising. I walk on the deck to clear my head and my ears are ringing. No: bells are ringing. Right away, I think it’s a clue for me. Excitement fills me. Until now my clues have been letters, faceless sketches of female forms. Pieces of her. In the last few days I’ve felt myself growing desperate. Instead of piecing her together, I sense that I am disintegrating, becoming as fragmented as she is for me. I am hungry for something different, something that will lead to a breakthrough, and these bells—
Careful of wishful thinking, I caution myself.
Wishful thinking: thoughts full of wishes. Remember that. To wish something means to be able to articulate it. To articulate something is to be a step closer to the thing. A thing that can’t be wished is impossible.
I give into my wish. These high-pitched, singing bells, what new piece of her might they be? Her voice? I try to mold them to my own vocal chords. Too high. All of the other boys in my class were happy when our voices started to change. I felt sadness. I never spoke of it; I would have found no allies. But with every pubescent crack, I battled tears. It seemed to me that I was losing myself. The moment my boy-voice vanished is the moment I started searching for her. Now, on the deck, I scan the water and sky, eager, heart motion-sick with excitement.
Bodies brush past me. My shipmates, always there, just when I’m trying to concentrate, when I’m near a breakthrough—
“Francis?” It’s the cook. Smell of stale coffee grounds and fresh potato peels. Eyes that pierce me. I run my hand over my face as if it would wipe my thoughts clean. The bells are still ringing.
The bells are still ringing. “Where’s your vest?” I hear a voice, too, among the bells. This is a drill, this is a drill. Fire on the 02 deck. It must have been there all along. The mind hears what it wants to. Wishful thinking. Man your stations. This is a drill.
“Captain’s going to be waiting for you.”
I’m off at a run for my stateroom, have to grab my life vest, have to try to remember my station, yes, of course, it’s Friday, it’s drill day, every Friday for the last year, what’s wrong with me, am I losing my grip, where do I go for fire drills, am I really falling to pieces?
We were all warned. We were warned about impatience. We were warned about wishing. About the pitfalls of hasty interpretation. SeaSoar warned us. Don’t start spending the season’s profits before you’ve begun to harvest, my father would have said.
And I have always been so careful not to jump to conclusions. This line with a gentle bend, what is it, is it the curve of a cheek? I try to fit the curve to photographs and sketches. Start over. I turn the curve. Stretch it, shrink it, start over. Enlarge it. Grow it to the size of the ship. Now I see: it’s the gentle hump of a whale’s back. Grow it again. Now I see: it’s a planetary dent pressed into the fabric of space. Start over. Shrink it. Shrink. Shrink. It’s an ant’s antenna. The curvature of a dustbunny. Understanding leaves me. I let it go. I am careful. Start again.
Now this. Fooled by a ship’s alarm I’ve heard countless times before.
How is it possible that I can feel so much for someone I can’t even picture?