Ta Voix

Dawn, day, dusk, darkness.

I was reliving the same day, going through the same routine, rowing the same old boat. No changes, no anomalies, no difference. 

I was a lonely traveller — too inexperienced and clueless to determine my final destination, but curious, and also, extremely anxious to get lost in the vast plain of the sea. And yet, I knew I was already lost, so from day to day, I was guessing the right path — the way out of confusion, murk and insecurity. 

Today was just another one of those days. And yet, it wasn’t the same — something was off.

As the darkness of the rapidly falling, moonless night began to besiege me, I became devoured by it; surrounded by its static, stiff air, suffocated by its essence. I had to keep going but I couldn’t imagine accomplishing it in such pitch-black gloom.

I stopped. I was struggling to breathe.

It might have been the air. Moist but cold; I had no choice but to inhale it. The iodized scent of the sea: a mixture of dried seaweed, sea lettuce and rockweed… I felt it so strongly. Every salty drop that the sea splattered in my face, I felt beneath my skin. I heard the sound of the waves brushing against the rocky coast, rising, falling, dancing on the pebbles. So chaotic, so alive. How could I fail to appreciate the briny air or the cold caress of the breeze? For the first time, I didn’t relish it.

Was it my fear, enveloping me so slowly and painfully, or my loneliness, engulfing me so hopelessly and inexorably? Alone, I was standing up to the murk with nothing but the sea behind me.

*

As a child, I used to wake up at night, wishing for the sun. The darkness would worry me, my thoughts would smother me, supplying my imagination with many demons and mystical night beasts that my mother used to tell me about when I wouldn’t sleep. They used to terrify me. But as I grew older, I learnt that darkness wasn’t an infinite black blanket that hid all the beasts and demons. It was the cloud of unknown it brought.

Back then, the sea would make me just as nervous. 

I couldn’t swim. I knew the know-how, but I was scared to approach the water. Every time, I’d spend an eternity sitting on the shore, brandishing my feet in the inexhaustible flow of waves, becoming more and more confident about stepping in. Then, I’d submerge, feeling a flood of air bubbles tickle my skin, as I let my head sink in — blinding rays of light would cut through the water and imprint their light on my face. At moments like these, I’d close my eyes and kick off the underwater rocks, quickly joggling my feet to keep myself afloat. Unconsciously, I’d take myself away from the coast, forgetting about my worry. But suddenly, just as my feet would finally stop feeling the sand, I’d feel like I was drowning.
Warily opening my eyes. but being unable to see through the dark seaweed-loaded water, I would shut them again, immediately imagining that there was something underneath me — something huge and fatal that would drag me down into the boundless depths. Because I wouldn’t dare open my eyes again, I could never persuade myself otherwise. And so, I grew up, studying the sea — startled but still scared of it.  

I feared the unknown. I feared what I thought I knew about it, and maybe I feared that the known was coming to an end.

*

Often, I’d row at night — some days my panic would boost itself so abruptly, making me feel so ceaselessly strangled by it, I’d have to stay awake round-the-clock to calm myself down. 

Today, it seemed like I’d keep rowing past the sunset — though the sea was still and there was no sign of storm, I was afraid that the boat would turn over. Alone against the dark, I was drowning in fear. I could feel the sweat drench my skin, the throbbing of my own eyes. The ringing screamed, vibrated in my ears, and my heart thumped against my chest. The hurt paralyzed me, spreading through my body like ice-cold, liquid metal. I just wanted to finally reach it, but it seemed so distant, so unattainable.

I was helpless.

And yet, I kept moving forward.

Another heave of the oars, drifting further into the darkness.

By now, my eyes were already used to the gloom, but since I never saw anything other than the plateau of the sea and the occasional dim, lackluster stars, I couldn’t believe that what I noticed ahead of me now could be more than a mere hallucination. 

In the charcoal obscurity of this stinging autumn night, I could just about descry its mighty outline. I could feel its cooling, soft warmth stroking my skin, welcoming me, like an old friend. It was standing sharply against the night-sky, freshly painted in red and white stripes against sinister charcoal clouds. Suddenly the light came from the top, a wide beam that swept across the wild waters in arcing sweeps, unwavering but so amiable and compassionate. And as I watched it spread its lustrous luminescence around me and close in on me, blockading me from the darkness, I felt I could breathe again. Finally, I realised, I have found my safe place. Here I’d always be shielded by the protective rays of light. Here I would always be free from fear. Some of us would travel the whole world to find ‘somewhere like this’. I was facing it.

Instantly, my now-normal feeling of lethargy found itself replaced by another, tender and familiar, though long-forgotten sensation: hope. I grabbed both paddles, leaning over them with all my might, and pushing my boat with an inexplicable surge of everlasting energy. Minutes later, I was clumsily climbing out onto the sand, eager to nudge my face into the field of moist, salty pebbles. I cried and laughed and thanked the universe for allowing me to step a foot on land again. And as I stepped out of my boat, I stepped out of the dark, leaving my fear behind, as my journey has come to an end. I stood up to the murk, strong and self-assured now that I knew the lighthouse was behind me.