Visions of land vanishing
Pour Mamie Cussonneau parce que c’est son anniversaire
It was yesterday, the 6th of January, at 7:24 am and 26 seconds, that I saw the vision of vanishing land for the last time.
In the distance we were seeing, the Pico do Fogo, a shadow in the sky disappearing behind a cloudy curtain. The sun, emerged from the seas, a flamboyant disk, whose warm light was broken and reflected a million times by the untameable waves. The sky was painted with pink coloured clouds. Weird forms shaped by the winds arose from them, becoming, in our eyes, stories, broken dreams fallen from the skies. The ocean wears a rough dress, our ship was dancing between the shining tips of water and the dreamlike motifs of waves captured our thoughts. In all of this Fogo enthroned high, a landmass resolving into non-existence.
A landmass we once called “home“. A landmass on which we laughed, cried and saw things which changed us forever. A landmass whose volcanic landscape, beautiful in its ashen destruction, testimony to the grandeur of the nature, was absorbed by our restless eyes. A landmass from which we returned glorious, with heads full of stories and dreams. It felt weird to walk away, leaving nothing but our memories behind.
Since I can remember I have always lived on solid ground. The sense of our earth under my roots, gave me the stability I needed. Gave me an anchor point in my confusing life. I grew up, learning between rocky mountains, playing in the flowing clear water of rivers and dreaming my life in the shadow of breathing forests. My compass always leads there, to my home. Two little flats, in a city. A simple unnoticeable place, but impregnated with memories so strong, that sometimes I could swear to hear the echo of their childish footsteps. There, on land resides my home, my family, my friends and in the end my heart. And now I shall leave all of them behind, trading it for two weeks of horizontal emptiness.
Watching the blaring emptiness, where heaven and sea collides, fear comes crawling up my gut. My desire for the lost landscape in the distance, for my surrendered home is overwhelming me. My terror faced with an uncertain future leaves sinister cloud towers in the highs of the deep blue sky. I don’t really know who I am or where I am going, all I know is that for the next 20 days I will be stuck on this ship, defenceless shell against the will of the ocean. There will be no way home, no safety boat bringing us back onto safe ground. The Ocean is to deep to drop anchor, it just falls into the darkness, forever and I helplessly float away, pushed around by the wind.
I turn away. Facing forward I inspect the elegant figure of our ship. This little miracle which using only ropes, wood and iron achieves to harness the power of the blowing wind. Tiptoeing trough the water washing over our deck my comrades, my friends rush from one place to another in a dance, elevating our sails together as one big ant colony. I can feel the fresh wind carefully flowing on my skin, as well as the movement of the waves steadily tilting the ship.
My eyes are called by the horizon, the twisted line flowing through the blues. My fear fades away, same as the feeling of emptiness, drowned by the seas rough surface reaching for the sky, mixing Azur and Lapis into a river floating between the worlds.
The horizon at the end of my vision also whispers a promise. A promise of wonders which lie beyond, a promise of a journey which awaits before and a promise of change, which begins now.
Even scared to death, I still can’t wait to see what lies behind the horizon.