the complications and compromises of dreams

She loved the coast, but not for the reasons most people do--of course, she enjoyed the warmth of the sun and the cool of the breeze mixed together, the salty air, the shifting sands revealing trash or treasure underneath; but it meant so much more to her than those physical sensations:

It meant escape.

She spent entire days dreaming of sailing/swimming/flying/drifting into an endless sea, the possibility of getting lost thrilling her. Never to be found again, to be completely alone, surrounded only by a sea indistinguishable from the sky. Her desire for such solitude was as inexplicable as it was selfish, but she didn't think about these things. She only knew she wanted to have her solitary freedom,

but could she do it?

Could she find the courage? There exists desire, but desires are like ideas--they remain impractical/useless/inactive/dead/nothing until they are actually done, or at least, put into the process of being realized. And there was the basic question of--how? Should she buy a sailboat? A normal little boat? Fly out in a hot-air balloon? Simply swim? Also--how long would she get to enjoy her alone time? Her dream of escaping into the ocean needed to last for some amount of time; she didn't want to be hungry, or thirsty, or have to go to the bathr--oh, well, no matter for that one.




The more she considered her options, the more she realized she needed to be more prepared. She couldn't simply just do it; the enjoyment would last no longer than a few minutes, if she was lucky. She had to be smart about it. A boat seemed to be the best idea--not a large luxury one, but one that had a kitchen, a sleeping area, etc. She had a bit of money saved up, but not enough for a boat by any means; she probably couldn't even afford a nice canoe. Well, maybe she could, she didn't know how much they were. The boat needed to be stocked with food, water, and unromantic necessities like toilet paper and trash bags.

And there was the matter of how long she would be gone--ideally, forever, but one had to restock, eh? Perhaps she could live in the ocean and make periodic trips back to land? But what about fuel? That was expensive--and there was no job to bring in money when you live in the sea! In the end, she found a little fixer-upper cottage on the coast of Washington; her nearest neighbor was three miles away, which was a little near for comfort, but compromises had to be made, she decided.

From her window, if you stood back far enough to see only the gray-green water, and you rocked yourself from side to side a little bit, it was enough to pretend you were bobbing in the ocean, alone, alone...




[Taken at the sand dunes of Oregon.]