there were many skies. the sky was invaded by great whiteclouds, flat on the bottom but round and billowy on top. thesky was completely cloudless, of a blue quite shattering to thesenses. the sky was a heavy, suffocating blanket of grey cloud,but without promise of rain. the sky was thinly overcast. thesky was dappled with small, white, fleecy clouds. the sky wasstreaked with high, thin clouds that looked like a cotton ballstretched apart. the sky was a featureless milky haze. the skywas a density of dark and blustery rain clouds that passed bywithout delivering rain. the sky was painted with a smallnumber of flat clouds that looked like sandbars. the sky was amere block to allow a visual effect on the horizon: sunlightflooding the ocean, the vertical edges between light and shadowperfectly distinct. the sky was a distant black curtain of fallingrain. the sky was many clouds at many levels, some thick andopaque, others looking like smoke. the sky was black andspitting rain on my smiling face. the sky was nothing butfalling water, a ceaseless deluge that wrinkled and bloated myskin and froze me stiff.
there were many seas. the sea roared like a tiger. the seawhispered in your ear like a friend telling you secrets. the seaclinked like small change in a pocket. the sea thundered likeavalanches. the sea hissed like sandpaper working on wood.
the sea sounded like someone vomiting. the sea was deadsilent.
and in between the two, in between the sky and the sea,were all the winds.
and there were all the nights and all the moons.
to be a castaway is to be a point perpetually at the centreof a circle. however much things may appear to change – thesea may shift from whisper to rage, the sky might go fromfresh blue to blinding white to darkest black – the geometrynever changes. your gaze is always a radius. the circumferenceis ever great. in fact, the circles multiply. to be a castaway isto be caught in a harrowing ballet of circles. you are at thecentre of one circle, while above you two opposing circles spinabout. the sun distresses you like a crowd, a noisy, invasivecrowd that makes you cup your ears, that makes you closeyour eyes, that makes you want to hide. the moon distressesyou by silently reminding you of your solitude; you open youreyes wide to escape your loneliness. when you look up, yousometimes wonder if at, the centre of a solar storm, if in themiddle of the sea of tranquillity, there isn't another one likeyou also looking up, also trapped by geometry, also strugglingwith fear, rage, madness, hopelessness, apathy.
otherwise, to be a castaway is to be caught up in grim andexhausting opposites. when it is light, the openness of the seais blinding and frightening. when it is dark, the darkness isclaustrophobic. when it is day, you are hot and wish to becool and dream of ice cream and pour sea water on yourself.
when it is night, you are cold and wish to be warm anddream of hot curries and wrap yourself in blankets. when it ishot, you are parched and wish to be wet. when it rains, youare nearly drowned and wish to be dry. when there is food,there is too much of it and you must feast. when there isnone, there is truly none and you starve. when the sea is flatand motionless, you wish it would stir. when it rises up andthe circle that imprisons you is broken by hills of water, yousuffer that peculiarity of the high seas, suffocation in openspaces, and you wish the sea would be flat again. theopposites often take place at the same moment, so that whenthe sun is scorching you till you are stricken down, you arealso aware that it is drying the strips of fish and meat that arehanging from your lines and that it is a blessing for your solarstills. conversely, when a rain squall is replenishing yourfresh-water supplies, you also know that the humidity will affectyour cured provisions and that some will probably go bad,turning pasty and green. when rough weather abates, and itbecomes clear that you have survived the sky's attack and thesea's treachery, your jubilation is tempered by the rage that somuch fresh water should fall directly into the sea and by theworry that it is the last rain you will ever see, that you will dieof thirst before the next drops fall.
the worst pair of opposites is boredom and terror.
sometimes your life is a pendulum swing from one to theother. the sea is without a wrinkle. there is not a whisper ofwind. the hours last forever. you are so bored you sink into astate of apathy close to a coma. then the sea becomes roughand your emotions are whipped into a frenzy. yet even thesetwo opposites do not remain distinct. in your boredom thereare elements of terror: you break down into tears; you arefilled with dread; you scream; you deliberately hurt yourself.
and in the grip of terror – the worst storm – you yet feelboredom, a deep weariness with it all.
only death consistently excites your emotions, whethercontemplating it when life is safe and stale, or fleeing it whenlife is threatened and precious.
life on a lifeboat isn't much of a life. it is like an end gamein chess, a game with few pieces. the elements couldn't bemore simple, nor the stakes higher. physically it isextraordinarily arduous, and morally it is killing. you must makeadjustments if you want to survive. much becomes expendable.
you get your happiness where you can. you reach a pointwhere you're at the bottom of hell, yet you have your armscrossed and a smile on your face, and you feel you're theluckiest person on earth. why? because at your feet you havea tiny dead fish.
