The Sea of Time

There was a man who climbed a mountain; the sea was his desire. He thought if he climbed high enough, he’d see it from afar. From where he stood, his vantage point was just above the trees, and perhaps this was high enough for him to view the sea. But to his consternation and the dismay upon his face, he realized that he’d have to climb a little more yet still, so with renewed determination, he reestablished the pace. The journey would take somewhat longer he thought as he moved around the boulders, the rough granite sides often scrapping against his shoulders.

He would pause every so often and be indulging in little rest, taking refreshment from the water bottle which hung across his chest. On several occasions, he saw his companion in the wind, a hawk by nature, soaring alongside as if to say; “Welcome, dear friend.” Now and then he’d disappear into a cloud passing by, only to emerge safely if not slightly damp, from the other side. When he looked ahead, wanting to gauge the distance between him and the mountain high, it seemed so very close, but yet indeed far, wearisome to the eye.

The sea was his desire, a dream since youth, the curse that was denied, for he found himself again and over, pursuing and leaping after her to acquire. The salty kiss he once had tasted when as a boy he stood in her presence, the thundering waves, the quiet tides, and reflections and the perfumes that rose like incense.The day so very long ago burned like an eternal flame lit from Olympus, and the light that it gave through the years unmeasured, reassured him of the call no matter the distance. Was the mountain too high to climb or the scrapping of granite too painful to bear? Not to him for his choice was made, his mind steadfast set, the eyes firmly fixed, the sea was his, weather foul or weather fair.

Too long had he waited, lingered at length, drawn aside by others who decried his dream of late. But they had drawn back, scornful of his dreamy passions, pitying his hopes and calling him to observe his life, the hour and the date. If age was a prerequisite to fulfilling the dreams planned, then long ago he had died, and only his ghost lived on, in memories left in the wreckage of the schooner cast upon the sands. No, he would not listen as friends would have him do, recline here with us and make merry as doth fools. No, was his answer for the sea calls and to her, I must flee, away from the table of fools and aged delicacies.

At length, he reached the top of the mountain he had climbed, now high above all clouds and memories left behind. And taking his place among the time-worn boulders, he sat and gazed upon the sea below, the swells rising and falling, calling to remind. You have spent a lifetime waiting to embrace her, here she is, at last, your final resting place, and here you are able to rest your weary mind. Look, there it is, the grand “Clipper of Time,” as it lies at anchor below, awaiting your arrival as your dreams ebb and flow. 

What is life but a moment in time, when all the most of do are wasting it, on another’s timeline? For if a man does what he is meant to do then his purpose is fulfilled, but to know that purpose, sadly, remains elusive even still. The sea is waiting, the clipper at the dock, for those who finally knew, although late, the meaning of the “Rock.” 

Edward Ordway