Horizons

by Tracy Whitehead (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Channel Islands

Overwhelming. It’s one of those words that teases your lips into different directions. The “oh”, replicating the shock of surprise and the “whelm”, pulling your mouth and cheeks out into a smile. It can hang in your ragged inhale and then be released with abandon in one deep, lung draining, emotion-laded exhale. Overwhelming. I’d been told that it could be a life changing moment. Those that had been lucky enough to experience it, could find it completely, overwhelming. It was something you needed to do for yourself and you’d love it or hate it, if you got that far. It required battling the odds of mind, body and sickness. Apparently there were three stages I was likely to experience. First, feeling inexplicably tired. Second, an aching head and body. The final stage for the unlucky - nausea and vomiting. I was washing between stage one and two, with just a little smattering of stage three to come. “No pills! You need to discover how you can control your sickness otherwise you’ll never make it!” It was a stern order from a man I hardly knew but had entrusted with my life. The infamous surge of the English Channel swells, heaved against the small sailboat and tugged at my stomach. Rise and fall. Rise and fall. When your sailboat is only eight meters long, with living quarters for two, it feels more like a sturdy sort of tent which can supposedly carry you beyond view of the shore across waves and seas. This was my virgin voyage. I had started chattering away to the skipper to keep my mind off the tugging feeling in my stomach until he barked, “You’re ruining your own experience! Test how your mind can handle silence. I’m going to be silent!” And he was, for hours. Taken aback, I retreated into myself and felt petulant. I would indeed prove I could handle the physical and mental rigours of it all. The dark silent waves heaved us up and down…for hours. I was staring at a full moon rising up in the sky. The water below it fanned out in rippled light reflections on black water which slapped against the hull of the boat. The stuff of high tales but here I was and it was real, astounding. Beyond a small ring around the boat, nothing else could be seen. Thoughts swilled and swam through my head on never ending and ever more annoying repeats as the dark, silent hours wore on. Memories, events, arguments, hopes. Memories, events, arguments, hopes. It had already been 12 hours and I was now aching physically and emotionally. I felt sick and vulnerable. I wanted sympathy but only the merged vista of sea, sky and the silence were there. Only your own fortitude can take you past the confusion of your body. Tears welled up in my eyes and childlike, I wished the skipper would crack and tell me I was doing well and that it would all be worth it when the moment came after sunrise. I wanted something to soothe my discomfort. But the sea doesn’t do that. It just is. And then it happened. The sky started to lighten far against the horizon in a hazy streak that spanned out further and further across my vision. The streak slowly smeared its way into the sky, making dark blue and then grey what was black. The sky came alive above the ever moving sea. My mind and body became still, calm, elated. Pale yellow, then brilliant burnt orange and red washed the sky as the orb of the sun broke out of the sea and rose up casting its brilliant light on to the surrounding water in splintered slates of vivid colour. I stood up and slowly swivelled around, breathing long and deep. The moment was here. Nothing prepares you as a land mammal to see nothing but water at every point on the horizon, 360 degrees around you. Nothing but water, nothing but sea and no other moving object anywhere in sight. Alone. Physically and mentally silent in time and space. “So how was it?” I shook my head and breathed it out as I smiled, “overwhelming”.