The sailor was fortunate.
The wind was always with him, and the sails knew their way.
We saw him waving from above the vessel,
steady, as if the sea were his friend.
He did not expect that wave.
It rises, strikes, overturns his very being.
The sails tear, and the rudder veers off.
He is still trying, clinging to the ropes,
holding himself behind the rudder as he always did.
He pulls the ropes, but they do not respond.
He grips the rudder, but it does not respond.
He calls out to the vessel…
nothing answers him.
They say: this will pass, he knows the sea.
But which direction does he take now?
And which direction leads him farther from his aim?
The vessel moves; the response is slow.
He feels every sway, then a brief steadiness.
He steadies himself behind the rudder. Progress is slight.
I move forward, step by step.
A step that steadies me, a step that reassures me.
With my crippled vessel, I drag the sea and its weight behind me.
Look, they say, he has returned.
But I do not return. I only go on
with what remains of the vessel. I do not sail,
I only try not to drown.
