Last summer I went to Vermont for a week of conferring with other educators. It is a beautiful, peaceful, working time, and I love it a lot. We had, months before, planned a weekend to Fire Island to visit friends who have a house there, and, unfortunately for me, it was for the weekend at the end of my week in Vermont. We decided that my family would head out on Friday afternoon/evening as early as they could so they could have as much time as possible with the friends. I was driving home Friday afternoon/evening and would come out as early as I could on Saturday morning. However, when the day arrived, I got home early enough from Vermont that Steve encouraged me to try to make the last ferry that went to Fire Island, and, thus, the last train that would get me to the last ferry. I went home, threw together items for the weekend, grabbed a Clif bar for dinner, and headed out.
I made the last train, and I made the last ferry. It was 10:30 at night. I went up top to the open air and took a seat. There were a few people on the ferry, with maybe five or six up top. I saw a woman sitting a few rows ahead of me, also by herself. I read my book and experienced the loudness and quietness of a trip across the Long Island Sound on a boat at night. I noticed that the woman a few rows ahead of me wasn't there anymore. I looked around to see if she had gone to sit somewhere else, but I didn't see her. Then I saw a hand drift up from the seat of where she'd been sitting and realized that she had lied down on the bench. I thought that this seemed like a great idea: I'd be able to see the stars spread around me!
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| Photo by Patrick Fore |
I lied down. I looked at the stars. I felt the bigness of the universe. It was pretty astounding. I could hear the ocean water bashing against the boat. Then, a macabre shift occurred in my brain: I began to imagine what would happen if the boat sank right there in the middle of the sound as we were chugging to Fair Harbor. I thought about what it would be like if my bag was lost to sea and I was rescued with nothing but the clothes on my back. I then began thinking about how I DO NOT KNOW STEVE'S PHONE NUMBER. He had to get a new one a year ago, and I didn't know it. I had had to memorize his last number after I didn't know it and I had to call him to let him know our three month old baby had a major malfunction and would likely need surgery. I became so consumed by this idea of being rescued from a sinking boat and then discovering that I would have no way to contact my partner that I zoomed up and frantically accessed Steve's number to memorize it.
I'm happy to say that I accomplished this feat. I just checked with Steve, and I've still got it right in my head.
I couldn't lie down again after that. The adrenaline had me jumpy, and I realized that the bigness of the universe was a little too much for me right at that moment. I think I'm more comfortable with the bigness when I'm lying on terra firma.
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| Photo by Mark Rainer |
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