Lone Seaman by Doc

       
He was Magellan, sailing west – ever west – toward his port of departure: Oblivion.

The sun was high, the swell slow and rhythmic.
Storms behind and ahead no doubt.
Memories of islands where – ever so briefly – he tarried to bring food and water on board.
Now at sea again.

He gazed up at the rigging.  The sails, like his past girlfriends….
Whipping in the wind, free and high above him.
They drove him on.  Across the cold sea.

He climbed, the better to unfurl the last sails.
To tend and mend and hold the white canvas in his rough hands.
The sails looked so white from far below.
Up close they showed wear and tear – but sturdily did their work.
Again they reminded him of women.  So many women.

He had hung some tiny pennants, triangular, pretty, at the very pinnacles of the masts.
They gaily swirled in the wind, making his three-masted barque a delight.
Sturdy oak.  Carried along by the breeze.  Over the dark sea.
Who were the pennants?  Who were the sails?  He fantasized.
Again: women.

He then set the wheel, tying it in place to make the rudder fast.
He gazed up at the tiny white cumulus clouds, high above his craft.

And he opened a book of tall tales.
Fantasies wrapped in the fantasy of his journey.

He sailed alone.