a sailor and a fickle sea

“If I could dream,” he says. “If only I could dream!”

His muted laugh tumbles out his throat like rubble- small pebbles of sarcastic joy. I suppose he has not realised yet, but he is crying. Silver pearls of tears forming at the brim of his eyes, threatening to spill at any given moment. Sitting quietly on that rocking boat, as glittering, salty currents danced among us, I finally realised that it was actually me who was the unfortunate one.

“If only I could dream,” he repeats. “I would dream of seeing.”

“Why can’t you dream?” I ask in a voice above a whisper. “What’s stopping you?”

His milky blue eyes gaze out at the magnificent expanse of water, though there was no

question that he could not actually see it, could not marvel at its beauty. I always imagined that he was silently creating an image of what he expected the sea to be, conjuring up a whole spectrum of colours, weaving his own world.

“What is the colour of the sea?”

Had it been a few days ago I would’ve been left dumbfounded by his sudden, nonsensical

question. It seems like a lifetime since I first met him, but in just three days I’ve grown

accustomed to his random questions, I’ve gotten used to the fact that he is blind, and has

always been blind, and will always be blind. I’ve come to know him as the beautiful tragedy he is.

“I cannot tell you the colour of the sea,” I say to him honestly. “What a struggle that would be for me.”

His eyebrows furrow, and knit together in confusion. “Why not?” He asks. “You can see,

can’t you?”

“Yes, I can, and that is often the problem.”

Laughing almost bitterly, he turns to face me at such an approximate angle that it would’ve baffled me to know he was blind. “How can seeing be a problem of any kind?”

I look out at the sea, and for the first time in my whole life as a fisherman, I tried to really

look at it, to understand it, to interpret its song. “Well,” I begin. “The sea is often a master of deception. In the morning, with the sunrise reflected on it, it appears to be a velvety shade of pink and blue and purple. In the afternoon, under the blazing heat, it looks a glimmering aquamarine. Come sundown, the sea seems to soak up the colour of the sky above- it is a lush red, spilling like thick, hot blood. But at night, it is a pitch black, an enemy to sailors, the colour of death.”

I pause and look over at him, who seems to be deep in thought.

“So you see,” I say. “I cannot tell you the colour of the sea. I can never truly believe what I am seeing.”

He says nothing still, but I know he’s listening. Digesting whatever it is I told him, trying to figure out himself the true shade of the waters surrounding us.

“What did you think was the colour of the sea?”

He looks up abruptly, again directly at me, although he could not actually see me. “Well,” he begins. “I’m not so much an expert on colours, but I always thought the sea to be yellow.”

“Yellow?” I repeat. “But why?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” says he. “Perhaps just because of the way it sounds- yellow. Doesn’t just saying the word give you a certain feeling? Like having squelching sand feel warm in

between your toes. Doesn’t the word help you imagine the rustle of water against the sea

bed? Doesn’t the whole sea just feel yellow to you?”

He pauses a bit and waits, and stares off again into the horizon. Nothing could be heard

except the ‘rustle’ of the water, the sea birds squawking in the distance, and the mumbles

of the fishing village we called home.

“I wonder,” he murmurs. “I wonder if seeing colours are just as good as feeling them. Or

maybe better?”

There in that little boat, I hold my peace- never before have I been rendered speechless as I am now. For some reason, I feel my words could not hold the weight of him. Somehow,

though never before, sitting beside a person who felt colours made me feel inadequate and small; as if I was but a child again and I didn’t know anything about the world.

I pick up the oars and begin rowing us back to shore, the sun was beginning to set and it

painted the whole world in a golden film. I tell him, “Wouldn’t I like to live in a world where I could feel yellow. It’s my favourite colour, you know.”

The boy smiles, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him smile so genuinely. It starts small but

stretches out wider and wider, like a crescent moon. What a smile.

“Well,” he says in return. “Nothing would please me more than to let you have a feel of my colours in exchange for a glimpse at your fickle sea.”

He smiles against the orange, evening sun as the wind blows strong torrents against his

sculpted face. “Wow,” he breathes. “What wouldn’t I give to be deceived by the sea.”