Sailing aboard the Pneuma (Part One)

The walk to the harbour was not as far as I had envisioned. When inside Mylifehouse the thought of changing and walking down to the sea seemed too much to contemplate. I was not ready for a voyage; I had never been on one. Furthermore, I was not an able sea person, perhaps I should get some training first.

To tell the truth, the decision to move was the most arduous, after that, it was all downhill, literally.

Mylifehouse was a grey building that stood squarely in the centre of an organized garden with a manicured lawn overlooking the coast and the harbour. The curtains, while quality, were heavy and uninspiring. The furniture fitted each room. Mere chance was not trusted; everything was measured off, straightened out and smoothed down. Time came in segments to accommodate prescribed events and organized activities. It was possible to be happy there, fun was there if one could organize it. However, it was systematic and easy to get used to, so easy in fact, that the fun quite quickly deflated. Having said all that, it was a safe place.

In the garden of Mylifehouse was a chapel. Like the house, it too was grey. The wall hangings and curtains were not as grand as the house. In fact, the place seemed furnished by cast-offs and hand-me-downs. In terms of being systematized and organized, it was more so than Mylifehouse.

The events in the chapel seemed to honour the clock. The chapel served carefully apportioned time. Its moments of use were marked with order and predictability. Coming out was more exhilarating than going in.

Then, one day, Shekinah came. We had heard of him in the lessons. When the one who taught spoke of him, it was in organized terms. He seemed great and powerful but altogether predictable. Every lesson spoke in the past tense. Every well-crafted fact left no room for mystery. Shekinah defied all of that ordered framing. He did not arrive in sandels, but was dressed just like any other thirty-something man. His t-shirt had something written on it that I did not understand. All of a sudden, wihtout fanfare or warning, he issued an invite to travel with him. His eyes flashed with excitement and his voice was marked by a boyish enthusiasim. As if to answer the unspoken question of 'where to?' he blew out his cheeks and released a breath of air and said, "wherever that may go." This invite to sail with Shekinah seemed almost frightening and very unsafe, but for me, at least, irresistible.

The morning air was crisp and the new dawn made golden the eastern horizon. The sea, as calm as a millpond, played mirror to the sun stroked clouds that floated overhead. Gulls screamed and squawked above and behind fishing boats returning from a night of harvest.

The quayside was a bustle of activity. Traders stood bartering with boat captains for fish of every description. Light-hearted banter and exuberant horseplay replayed up and down the quay. Dogs barked and the odd cat, hardened by years of dockside scavenging, chanced an act of thievery. What was odd was the fact that those who bustled through my life every day were no where to be seen, I recognized no one from Mylifehouse or the chapel, although I would usually see them most days of the week.

Today, everything was alive and in full colour. Usually ignored sounds now played a symphony in my ears. Life had seemingly begun again. This was a new beginning, I was sure of it. I had never had this awareness of guiltless anticipation before, a positive sense of being unsure. The possibilities seemed endless. I just had to find that boat.

I asked a salt-bitten sailor who seemed as ancient but as alive as the sea. He pointed down to the end of the key with an enthusiastic gesture. There she was, the Pneuma.

As I approached her sleek lines, beautiful sails, and ornate carvings along her prow struck me. I was aware of men working on her deck, but their activity was devoid of stress or burden. She seemed to be at peace amidst the intense bustle and crescendo of the quayside.

Then, the oddest thing, it seemed as if the Pneuma sailed into me, right inside of me. So distinct was the experience I swallowed as if to send food to my stomach. I shook my head like a man escaping the bonds of a trance. There she was, still moored. The peace that seemed to permeate her every plank and rope was now deep inside of me. I did not understand, in fact I could not.

I walked aboard. Those on deck straightened from their tasks and greeted me warmly but without extravagance, as if I were someone to whom respect was due. A young man appeared at my side and gently took my arm. Though his touch was gentle, there was strength in that hand, very great strength or was it more than that? Was it power?

He led me below decks. Down there, if anything, the air was fresher than out in the open, if that were possible. The light was silver; that is the best way to describe it. There were no shadows inside the Pneuma; the silver filled every crook and cranny. Where I expected shadow I only saw the silver light. Everything that I predicted or expected was confounded in this place.

A waterfall voice thundered from above. If a sound could be a colour, that voice would have been golden. As I clambered back onto the deck the Pneuma slipped her moorings and glided out into the open sea. The waterfall spoke, for there was no need to shout, and the sails were trimmed and the morning breeze filled them out and the Pneuma surged on into the adventure.