I am in my boat; it is in the ocean. The waves rock me, I know them well. I shouldn't find myself caught off guard by any one, at this point, but so often I still do. I am tired and tossed by them. I am a sailor, made for the ocean, but somehow it holds animosity for me - like the flame of a candle up to me, taunting; a small threat capable of great destruction.
The waves keep coming, they are relentless. Each time I think, I am a sailor, made for the sea, and yet each time I wobble and waver on their account. Some are smaller, for which I'm thankful to learn balance. Others come fast and hard, chipping away at the vessel. I know that they are coming, my heart races at just the thought. They are apt to find me - aboard a boat, in the ocean, and they are waves. They are relentless. Oh! How my tired heart longs for steady currents.
Such a craft is not made for such water, so it seems. Feels as though I am in a small dingy, while others tell me it's a great and beautiful ship, with an excellent keel. Still, for some it's not good enough: it has its cracks and its loose planks, so it is unfit for sea, they say. No matter what I'm told, the reality is it's ravaged by the water; the very thing for which it was made. Often as I feel her brittle creaking and hear a subtle groan, and think, maybe it's best not to sail anymore.
I could always talk myself out of sea sickness, again. Or maybe, truly for the first time. One day, the education of each wave will be the honor of this ship, the tales to be told years after my passing. And so I must bolster my heart and my vessel for the storms inevitable to fare, - for if I am a sailor, I must certainly stay well out to sea.
