stonefly
October 18th, 2010, 04:15 PM
How did it come to this?... He surfed his thoughts like his craft rode the crest of mankind's ingenuity. It was the best of the best, the forefront, and the water flew below. Strange, he mused, that there was no other word. Water flew beneath his bare feet, balanced as they were on the framework of the craft. Water could have been ice. He could have been flying across ice, but the water was not in its solid state, and he was sailing the platform. What a mundane appellation for the craft...but it was appropriate.
Platform was right. It was thin composite across titanium frame. Above stood knives of sails, taught, tuned, singing, and the multiple hulls hung on the windward with no less insolence then they skated and skimmed the downwind where they made their deal with the water, not just a good deal...a steal.
Only weeks before, he had driven across the state of Maine. At Long Lake a beach played at the water's edge. The women, one of whom was in her best years, after the world had held her a while, and the other, who could have been her daughter, sat back in their recliners facing the cold lake.
They had talked for a while before he took his leave, and they made an unspoken trade. They were beautiful, and he left them a trace of true romance. He pointed toward the sailboats moored against the backdrop of the low hill, and made comment of their furled sails.
He belonged to the wind, and to the water, its partner in their deal with him, but the women would never forget him, nor he them.
Neither would he forget what he was.
Men flew in machines, but they could not command the air, only hammer upon it mercilessly. Birds were one with the air, as men had became one with their machines. Yet with the sail, men did what no other creature could mimic.
The nontraditional platform was the peak. The traditional heavy hull, however cunning, plied the water. The platform sought to depart the water.
The wind, the water, and the platform had carried him to the edge. He would negotiate the edge, keeping to the path, forever wondering...what's next?
Platform was right. It was thin composite across titanium frame. Above stood knives of sails, taught, tuned, singing, and the multiple hulls hung on the windward with no less insolence then they skated and skimmed the downwind where they made their deal with the water, not just a good deal...a steal.
Only weeks before, he had driven across the state of Maine. At Long Lake a beach played at the water's edge. The women, one of whom was in her best years, after the world had held her a while, and the other, who could have been her daughter, sat back in their recliners facing the cold lake.
They had talked for a while before he took his leave, and they made an unspoken trade. They were beautiful, and he left them a trace of true romance. He pointed toward the sailboats moored against the backdrop of the low hill, and made comment of their furled sails.
He belonged to the wind, and to the water, its partner in their deal with him, but the women would never forget him, nor he them.
Neither would he forget what he was.
Men flew in machines, but they could not command the air, only hammer upon it mercilessly. Birds were one with the air, as men had became one with their machines. Yet with the sail, men did what no other creature could mimic.
The nontraditional platform was the peak. The traditional heavy hull, however cunning, plied the water. The platform sought to depart the water.
The wind, the water, and the platform had carried him to the edge. He would negotiate the edge, keeping to the path, forever wondering...what's next?