Just as the dream was taking its strongest, most lucid, and most soulful moment, the light from the skylight pierced the glass and illuminated my entire cabin. It was an explosive event in which I came out of the fantastic unreal world I was living in and opened my eyes to find the tedious reality.
I was lying on my bed and I could hear the ship's boilers in the distance, they screeched like an animal wounded by an arrow, and further away I could hear the footsteps of the sailors who were going about their daily chores. It was notorious to say that their shuffling footsteps were an indication that the day was going to be just like the others.
I wished I could sink into sleep, REM sleep, a beautiful dream that I experienced every night when I went to bed after watching. My cabin was tidy because it was a routine pretext to do something, to move something, and get some action in the day. I would go bathe, brush myself, go to lunch, and then watch on the bridge. Where the officers would take it upon themselves to exercise their pedagogy on me, forging a theoretical future officer. It was not their fault that there was not enough material or that the ship was anchored for months in that place.
Every day I lamented and took refuge in my dreams. A dream built by my greatest yearnings.
I studied during the day how to observe the stars and planets, how to play a role in navigation watches or cargo operations, how the hydraulic valve system on the main deck worked, about leadership, and about making strong decisions, but that was of no use to me. I longed to sail again, even if it was only five more times.
And that's what I dreamed of every night when I went to bed and closed my eyes. I dreamed of feeling the air on my face as I stepped out onto the bridge wing, of building psychedelic stars in the night sky that flew and crossed the known horizon. In my dreams, the bow of the ship would gently but forcefully cut through the salt water, and nothing around me could be observed but only the sea and clouds. I wished to stay in that unreal world, where my ship could see strange lands populated by natives and fierce giants, just as the marvelous Sinbad the sailor once did.
When I woke up and found myself in the same place without any change, depression attacked me, tearing me apart every day as if I were Prometheus tied to a cliff waiting for the next day my wounds to heal. Depression was the eagle and visions repaired me, but that would not be enough. My seafaring blood asked to sail, my feeble knowledge of seamanship asked to be forged in the action of the sea, and the rains and storms would be the hammer of my unforged steel.
Ulysses, the Argonauts, Christopher Columbus, James Cook, and Gulliver are people who frequently in the domains of Morpheus I personified. I commanded galleys, galleons, ships, and frigates. I sailed the sea in steamships as well as huge tankers like a VLCC. My dream ship faced the Kraken himself in an endless rain that filled me with glee.
I hated the time when the light in waves and particles passed through the glass of the skylight because just at that moment my pupils were irradiated with luminosity and dragged me away from my dream navigation.
The raging sea was the sailor's way, not the tranquility of a port where the days were eternal and the nights slipped away from me like sand when they touched my hands.
Was it too much to implore for an adventure in the immense blue sea?
.png](https://images.ecency.com/p/2dk2RRM2dZ8gKjXsrozapsD83FxL3Xbyyi5LFttAhrXxr16mCe4arfLJJ4bCsXwMGMDNdmyQGv2Z7S4R6JkXT7J9y4nVp9JKgg1hox6ej9NK79HPz2fJHdLBC8EAX8xJHDfEfB7cdJvcpkCGAujuJd1b4NZjHzbJ4MPLXm2tpn.png?format=match&mode=fit)