waiting

by Walter Weinschenk

I

Tides tumble and the ocean’s everything rolls up in a swirl and sienna rocks and tawny shells are thrown like dice through the water from one shore to another. Storms twist and braid, cut uneven paths through swaths of roiling water. Currents, mindless and inexorable, undermine everything that floats above and all that lies beneath, churn the seabed and scatter the sand, rip anemone from their stations, unravel coils of silver bladed fish while the surface explodes and waves rise high, fly toward you, relentless and cruel like those insensible walls of water that battered the ark so long ago and set it listing from side to side. The sea is a tumult, a terrifying process, and I’m too scared to venture out, too afraid to move, but too afraid to be alone, too afraid to be with others, too afraid to release the life-ring of routine to which I cling like someone half-drowned.

Nevertheless, the sea draws me in. I could find a boat, get behind the wheel and drive like mad, my eyes wide open like the windows of heaven. If I were to leave, I would see everything, everyone, every person, each in a boat, each behind the wheel, each of them like me. I would race relentlessly, unforgiving, like an arrow shot from a bow, a spear thrown straight through unending space.

I prefer to linger. Through the window, I see the stationary sun, acid yellow, waiting for me to move. The itinerant clouds have paused for now, and the trees are still but for the shimmy of their leaves. My elbows are propped upon the kitchen table and I’m waiting for the kettle to boil, but I just heard the chime of church bells in the distance, resonant like fine glass, a procession of peals in long succession, tonal and even like some ancient lament. I could sit, perhaps forever, or I could open the door, walk into the world, step into the heat of the wind and, like an arrow, fly relentlessly toward the sea.

II

It was long ago that I crossed the desert and arrived at your front door. No need to let me in just yet; I know how to wait.

In the desert, the sky folds over you, the ground swells beneath you and the heat drowns you as if it were an ocean. I wandered within it, unsure of a way out, struggling against the boiling air and the sun’s scalding rays, burning tentacles that strangled like snakes of fire.

The hot sand crackled, turned a dim shade of white. I was running out of time. All I could do was wait.

I grew numb. I looked to the horizon which blinked beneath the sun’s pale aura. The sight of it was somehow comforting. I closed my eyes and, as I closed them, the air cooled around me and I wore the air as if it were a vestment. I felt the earth rumble and, suddenly, the sea opened up to me, the beautiful sea: the desert was now a sea.

The water was calm, the waves were gentle, grey and green like swirled oil paint. I was passed from one wave to the next, and the current carried me carefully as a mother would. I sailed with the tide in a slow, straight line toward the land. Like a mother, the current laid me down upon the shore, that same shore upon which your cruel front door is firmly affixed.

   III

The sea surrounds us and can’t be traversed, so it seems. No matter how large and imposing the ship, our expeditions are typically disastrous: the boats we build return in pieces with the tide. Sailors leave the wharf with confidence but few return. Through the years, splintered boards and ripped sails collect upon the beach, a rotting memorial that rims the shore, a testament to those who venture out and are lost.

The problem grows severe as years pass. The land is rocky and our fields lie fallow, resources are dwindling and famine threatens. We need new reserves, new land, a new means to sustain ourselves. We must find a way to the next shore, however distant it may be.

There can be no doubt that fertile fields await. The ancient tomes describe these lands in detail, limitless hectares green with corn and beige with wheat. Our elders sing of the promised land, and our priests pilgrimage to the mountain top – the highest elevation - and pray for salvation.

In fact, I recently boarded a boat, one of the largest, and set out toward the horizon. We were enticed by the sea, gentle grey and flat for miles. We were hopeful: the breeze was sweet with salt and our vessel slid through the water like a plow. Sadly, we soon turned back. We had no choice: a grey-winged albatross stalked the boat, rammed the hull and tore our sails.  It was a grim omen.

Some of us have lost faith, but a growing number look to the old books and scripture, long disregarded, with renewed hope. We are told, through those verses, to disavow purpose and good things will come: release the will, arrest the ego, abandon need, want nothing, cease all effort. This group – me included – will soon assemble on the sand, sit among the mounds of rotting wood and ripped sail - and wait. We shall empty ourselves of need and, thus cleansed, a wondrous shore will find us, come to us, bridge the ocean before our eyes. In truth, however, I am not hopeful: it takes a particular type of effort to cease all effort, a special form of will to subdue the will. At this juncture, after so many disastrous attempts, we have no choice but to try though trying, in itself, may be the heart of the problem.

Photo of Walter Weinschenk

BIO: Walter Weinschenk is an attorney, writer and musician. His writing has appeared in numerous literary publications including La Piccioletta Barca, The Normal School, Lunch Ticket, The Carolina Quarterly, The Worcester Review and others. He is the author of "The Death of Weinberg: Poems and Stories" (Kelsay Books, 2023). Visit at walterweinschenk.com.