A Confession

Just as Numah had conformed to the temptress of rest, he revolted with slowly waking, swollen red eyes resistant to the reality of his inescapable condition. He awoke with the sun brightly overhead burning his salt-soaked, sore-scathed skin, and his dirty blonde hair was tangled and matted; a work proudly claimed by the sweat, blood and tears of the sky, soul and skin. His lips
were as a desert land’s fault line, a formidable comparison to any viewer, and too harrowing for even a buzzard. Fatigue now, seemed to become his constant companion upon waking, and with alarm, Numah realized the hardship of his toils to come.
What fresh water or food would he have-if any-on such an unprepared sailboat for such an unprecedented odyssey? Numah shifted his weight around through the boat without standing up-the weakness would overtake him- and dragged himself with much prevail, to his surprise, to the opposite end of the boat, where he had hoped he could dip his finger in the cool of fresh water, to ease such a restless thirst. Just as the lukewarm are cast out of the comforts of heavenly paradise, Numah spat out the soiled water.
The sea had fought and won in the war against the rain, leaving Numah with an undying thirst. No cloud in the sky. No fresh water. Two days at sea, mostly in a restless sleep-state given, but still living, one more day left; Numah needed water. Now risen to a new level of awareness and alert, like a promotion of the senses, Numah darted throughout the boat-fatigue shoved to the wayside- looking for any nook or dip that would possibly contain his salvation. It seemed all for naught, but hiding in one shadowed corner- just below the bow- a dent in the transom was revealed and seemingly held its innocence all night against the sea.
Numah carefully sipped the living water, as if a sacrament or relic blessed by the priestess of Pythia. His weathered lips were immediately purified by the cool of the water’s touch, his tears dared not tamper the only life left. Breath seemed to flood into him like the levy of life had broken inside and he thus let out a cathartic, deep sigh. An awakening came upon him-panic now ceased- and Numah felt he could breathe again, a once un-dead but lifeless creature resurrected by the remnants of war.
It would not sustain him long. Numah would soon need water again, and eventually food would become priority. Plans started formulating in his mind, in how he could survive out in the deeps until he could get back to Se’jus. Se’jus, he thought, I have not abandoned you. I will return.
It was a vast void of Open Ocean before him, no veil leant its embrace or gave comfort. Blocking the sun from his mourning eyes, Numah looked all around him trying to configure some way of direction or heading. It seemed to no prevail as the sun continued its ravenous assault on the sailboat, therefore leaving Numah in quite a disoriented state, as his earlier salvation now became mere vapor or dew on a drenched field that alluded to the summer’s presence. Illusion now gone. There was nowhere to go. The senseless ebb and flow of time and tide had worked their silent tyranny and now the void of ocean laid as barrier against unity. I will get back. I will get home. These thoughts echoed through all of Numah’s mind, taunting him in a mocking confirmation of the impossible.
In a crude and exhaustive manner, Numah fashioned a rod from part of the splinted deck and tied loose thread onto the end of the rod from his ever unravelling and fading pants; he seemed to have hope where hope had gone. For even if he could gather food in such an unreasonable
way he feared from his overzealous exertion that he would not live to bring the food to his satisfaction, there was no more rain water upon his vessel.
Soon night fell, and brought with it the pains of failure, fatigue and famine. Numah’s eyes would’ve relieved tears, had he had any rebel left in them, and any strength to pursue a cathartic resolution. Suddenly a thought came, a call to flesh, a revelation took a hold of Numah, and dreary as it was, gave a sense of peace he had not found since awaking to the sky’s revolt on the two lovers many nights before. He would not be silenced in his final moments on this earth, his voice would find resonance in eyes of the future, and perhaps his hardships would be immortalized in the soul of the future reader. He would write; his voice would be heard.
Now absurd as it was, in the cabin, though not loaded with essentials that were vital to his continuation, was a notebook and a pencil that Se’jus would use to sketch as they sailed around the bays, moments such as sunsets or any other item of aesthetic or eternal nature that presented itself true and beautiful. Scraping himself off the deck, Numah slowly made his way to the cabin-mind you too small for drapery against the daytime tyrant-and reached in to retrieve the small book more than half empty with the absence of Se’jus’ sketches, more time; they both just needed more time. With a deep breath and a commitment that reached to a sphere barely beyond a resigned being, but still blotched with a decaying hope, Numah began to write.