Summary: Adam, a boat, and a storm at sea. A poem about Adam’s fever dreams while he lay ill in “Elizabeth My Love”.

Rating: K

Word Count: 482

Alone.

All alone upon a glassy sea,

With only the waves

And the mourning gulls about me.

Strange.

So strange this green sea

Upon which I sail,

So calm without ripple or tide.

The sun,

So hot.

It beats upon my brow,

Searing my skin,

Threatening to burn me alive until….

A breeze;

A tiny puff that tickles the sail

Of my boat,

Ruffling my hair.

Then it’s gone.

Alone again

Save for the gulls;

There are three.

They wail,

Circling the mast,

Giving me no peace from their cries.

A cloud.

A single, fleecy wisp on the horizon.

No, two.

Three.

Relief pours through me.

Finally, something to blot out the sun.

But it is not to be.

A wall.

A wall of darkness.

Angry clouds black as pitch,

Barreling my way.

The tiller!

I need the tiller!

I must turn the boat about

Or be lost.

No one can survive such a tempest,

Not even the most experienced of sailors,

And I, a mere novice at sea,

Cannot hope to live through such a storm.

Too late.

I am too late by far, I know.

My palm touches the smooth wood.

The storm breaks over my head.

Roaring, crashing.

Bolts of lightning

With rolling thunder hard upon its heels.

The sea.

The sea is boiling,

Writhing in agony

As if giving birth to some new horror:

A Kraken,

Or some creature

From the depths of Poseidon’s halls.

Water!

I am in the water.

The boat is gone,

Lost in the frothing waves

Where soon I too shall disappear.

Die?

Yes.

Yes, I will die here;

I can feel death’s icy fingers,

Hauling, tugging,

Urging me down.

Down.

Down.

Down in the depths,

Far below the surface where up

Is down

And air is nowhere to be found.

“Pa!”

Bubbles trail from my mouth,

As the cry mingles with the salty brine.

He does not come.

Of course he does not come,

I am alone.

And yet…

I am not.

A hand.

A gentle hand grips my own,

Pulls,

And pulls,

Drawing me up.

Up.

Up.

Up into the life-giving air.

I cough,

And cough, and cough.

Through it all the hand never lets go.

It is small.

A delicate thing,

yet strong.

That hand,

It changes.

It broadens,

There are callouses on it.

“Son?

Adam?”

I blink.

Light.

Bright light flowing from a lamp.

I am no longer at sea,

But lying in my bed.

“Pa?”

A grin,

It tugs at his worry-lined cheeks,

Sparkling in his eyes.

Ill.

I have been ill,

Sailing rudderless within a fevered sea,

But I will recover.

I am tired.

More tired than I have ever been before,

But just as my lids close,

I see her again:

my savior.

The owner of the hand,

The one who saved my life tonight.

And as I slip into a real slumber,

I whisper her name:

“Ma.”

~ Finis

Author Note:

I wrote this for a writing challenge on Bonanza Boomers; on there is was entitled “Someone Saved My Life Tonight”.