The Meridian

June 10, 2012

The Meridian

To me, we could be lost at sea, with only the illusion

of land in the distance. The shades of water meaning

nothing to me, I saw only dangerous colors

of unknown depths and darkening clouds. The light

above our sails began to fade away as wave after wave

rose up, close, close beside us; I thought of what a fool

I was, knowing nothing about a storm. But the sky could not fool

my father, who pulled taut the lines as though the clouds were an illusion,

the darkness nothing more than a trick of the mind, and the waves

just the water’s joke. Somehow he understood the meaning

of the seagulls flying above us, knew we had time before the light

disappeared, before the lake put on a foamy dress the color

of midnight, and of stars. My father’s eyes were the same color

as a clear sky in June, and as the sun shone on the water like fool’s

gold, I watched his gaze, navigating our way like a seabird. The last of the sunlight

sparkled on the spray and on the thick, wet ropes, creating illusions

of rainbows. But my father’s corded arms and tough hands knew the meaning

of a hard day’s work, and I knew that no matter how the waves

grew, we would be safe. And sure enough, a buoy rocked and waved

just within sight, a beacon pointing us home, its bright red color

a happy change from the never-ending seascape, a sign meaning

we were close. The dark storm behind our sails, however, would not be outfooled

by the likes of us – the gusts of wind grew strong and fast, sweeping away any illusion

of escape, making the sails billow and snap. As the light

faded into gray, we could just see, on the distant buoy, a seagull had alighted.

Then the storm struck, its heavy rain lashing at us, its wind tossing us about, its waves

crashing into the hull of our sailboat. But once again, the illusion

of the lake did not frighten my father. His face was the strong, solid color

of determination, his jaw set in the effort to evade the inevitable, to fool

fate. I yelled to him through the rain and wind, meaning

to help, if I could. But he looked back at me calmly, and I knew the meaning

of his gaze: the Meridian was my father’s boat, even in light

of this storm’s power. It was his, so he would protect it, no matter the wind or the waves

that faced him. The storm struggled on, but so did he, and soon the harbor was no illusion

to be chased away by a howling gust. I looked back at the water, and perhaps I’m a fool

for thinking so, but it seemed that this was the way my father saw it – its colors

all wild and alive, the meanings of the waves

clear and lovely. Way up through the storm clouds, the sky was the light color

of a gull’s wing; not even a fool could think that this beauty was an illusion.