night_vision

A vast heaven lit fluid plain; the view through a wheelhouse doorway- the door tied open with a string of coarse black hanging twine. It swings a few inches in response to the motion. On the rail a few feet from the open door moisture glows green from the wash of the starboard running light. The railing is painted white, coated a dozen times through the years, its' edges weathered and worn bear no detail. Beneath the rail a strip of wet washed deck is visible from the high stool bolted to the wheelhouse deck and the spoked wooden wheel. Outside the grooved high sill of the open door sits a stained plastic bucket tied by its' wire handle with a thin line to the rail.
The only light not borne by the sky glows weakly from a tiny red bulb fixed in a tarnished brass tube above the compass. The reflected moon streams green and purple off the sea through thick glass salted panes.

         The helmsman leans against the backrest with stockinged feet thrown up crossed at the ankles. The diesels' muted rattle drones a roiling thrum but his ears are tuned to the rush of brine sliding past the hull below the rail. The wheel lashed by long ago spliced eyes in hand smoothed greasy hemp rope. The noon spoke is decorated with fancy turnings of turkshead ropework but the wake runs true closer to ten o'clock. On the horizon a pale flicker marks another boat underway. The light winks off when the high swell borne by a far storm blocks the line of sight between the boats.
        There is no wind. The surface is smooth as heavy oil; the swell long and deep, the motion easy and sweet. The boat moves down the line leading a straight glowing wake.
         He spots a cold blue flash of diffuse motion as dolphin cut near through the warm sea. The image etched there in his eye rests on his mind and remains. The moon is high, waning a few days past full. Its cold light bathes the serene face of the sea.
         The helmsman moves to grab the mike of the radio bolted to the overhead but before his hand touches- it cracks to life with the voice of the lead boats mate. They pass a moment linked by the silences between few words. They listen to each others accounting of the perfection of the night- and silence.
         There is nothing else to say, for at that moment nothing more existed than their connection to the breathless barrier between sea and space through which they passed.