We had planned the sail weeks ahead of time. It had been scheduled for a long weekend; supplies and camping gear prepared and the weather forecasts eagerly consulted up to the last minute. But as lovers often do, we quarreled — for the last time as it turned out — and I found myself towing the Pelican to the Gulf and launching her without any help. The island was four miles offshore and the wind favorable; I was confident I could make it there and have camp set up in time to get some fishing in before dark.

I had often sailed with green crew but never by myself, and the experience was not quite what I had imagined it would be: not only was I truly alone on the water, but I realized I had no real business there. Any minor accident or emergency could easily turn into a catastrophe, and I found myself acutely aware of my precarious position. Alternating with this realization was the recurring memory of the unpleasantness of a few hours earlier . . . the harsh words and the missed opportunities. The sea also has a way of finding our weaknesses, and this trip was no exception. The wind died briefly, then shifted and kicked up into a brisk breeze from the northwest. The little sloop was committed to a series of alternating long and short tacks into a steep and whitecapped sea. By the time I made it to the lee of the island and anchored securely, waded ashore, and pitched the tent, it was well after sunset. I was exhausted and, although I had not been in any real danger, I was disappointed at my reaction to what should have been a very pleasant sail. The sea and sky had sparkled with a dazzling intensity, but I was alone, and I was afraid.

In those days, the island was known only to the locals and a few professional fishermen, so I had it all to myself. On the weather side stretched one of the world’s great beaches: three miles of perfect white sand, a hundred yards wide. Except for an automated lighthouse, there was nothing there but natural vegetation and an astonishing number of birds. I decided to go for a walk along the shore and reflect upon the day’s events.

It was almost totally dark by the time my stroll began and a dim glow in the west marked the sun’s last light. A very young crescent moon followed it into the sea, and several planets marched in single file along the ecliptic, revealing perfectly the plane of the solar system. Walking into the night, the rotation of the earth became apparent and, as the sky darkened, the Milky Way appeared, knotted and clustered and so bright that those poor unfortunates not familiar with a truly dark sky could have mistaken it for a cloud. With only a little knowledge of astronomy, the great circles of horizon, ecliptic, equator, and Galaxy provided clear evidence for the three-dimensionality of the cosmos. There was the unexpected appearance of increasing star density toward the Milky Way, giving the illusion of depth, a perspective vanishing point along the Galactic equator. One did not just look up at this sky, it was possible to look into it. It all made perfect sense, like being inside an immense armillary sphere, except that the earth was not at the origin. In fact, there was no center at all, and the planes of earth’s horizon, revolution, rotation, and even of the Milky Way itself were simultaneously obvious, yet clearly arbitrary. There was no up or down, just endless axes extending forever into infinite space.

It suddenly became clear how even my meager knowledge of astronomy made it possible to appreciate the vast mechanism of the sky in a way that had been impossible for the ancients. I was also aware that other levels of reality also lie beyond our sight and understanding, and that at other scales of time and space my perception is just as flawed and limited as theirs was. We all understand this, of course, but we rarely ever feel it emotionally. I realized I had never really experienced the universe all at once, directly. Suddenly, all those textbook diagrams became concrete. There were other insights too, the events of the day, the personal and intellectual experiences so important to me, meant nothing at all to this immense indifferent coldness. The universe is incredibly old, extravagantly large, and almost unbearably beautiful, but most of all it is primarily empty. It was a devastating insight for a young man, and it haunts me to this day.

In a little over an hour I had hiked the long length of the island and was gradually strolling off the end. I knew the tide was rising, and I was brought back down to earth with the thought that I had better get back to the beach before I was stranded on the flats and had to get my clothes wet wading back. I did not relish the thought of an hour’s walk back to the tent with soggy shoes and wet jeans slapping at my ankles. For the first time I switched on my light to find the driest path; I had forgotten that the north end of the key was one of the few suitable spots on that entire coast for sea birds to roost.

In an instant the air around me was clogged with ghostly shapes trying to dart out of the beam of my light; a blizzard of birds, screaming and shrieking at my audacity at awakening them. For a moment I was so dazzled and startled by the explosion of life that I almost panicked. I ran back to the beach and sat down on the sand in the dark until the birds quieted down and I could see again clearly by starlight alone. Once again I had that disturbing feeling: that in spite of the beauty around me, I had no business being there. All the way back, the waves washed across my boots and I gazed, with dark-adapted eyes, at the sparkling phosphorescent micro-organisms in the sea, almost as numerous as the stars themselves.

EDIT: Besides, with my spelling and obvious errors in punctuation…

Me, aside from tuning my own voice through prose, I am attempting to find the right work / genre / medium. This place has been a big help in both inspiration and instruction.

Currently, I am bouncing around two forms of writing études. The first is a collection of stories and essays about the daily life of doing geology in the field, because “write about what you know,” right? These are all short essays. On the other table is a project I call “One Thousand Words.” Take a favorite photo and write a thousand words about it.

Both are harder than I thought. I find myself thinking about them a lot more than I am actually punching keys. I ask myself questions. Is this just a fun story? Or is there more to it? Can I draw a moral or a lesson learned? An epiphany? A caution. I think about structure. How do pull off a nice, but quiet, foreshadow? How about the other characters in the story? Or am I going way too far with the first person. How do I make them pop off the page. How real do I get on these characters, or is it better to create a composite? Because I don’t want to hurt anyone.

And in all of that, you are right about the introspection. For looking back, finding old memories as I rummage ’round the gray matter attic, I also realize what a jerk I’ve been.

Sometimes.

Also, a hero, sometimes.

(Edited, of course.)

There’s just something about trying to distill something inside you, into something someone else can understand and feel.

It’s like a form of introspection that I wasn’t aware of until recently.

EDIT: Problem is, I was pretty much a stupid jerk. So, there’s that.