Lost

Sometimes I dream that I'm in a small rowboat... lost in a dark shifting sea. There's a drizzle which grows to a downpour, causing my panic to rise with the tide. The oars are wet and slippery to grasp; my feet are plunged into cold water as the belly of the dory fills with rain and spillover from the waves' caps. The clouds and their cargo obscure the sun and paint the sky with dark violent colors, which the surface of the water mirrors brokenly. The rain floods in sheets. My face is salty, flecked with seaspray and impossible to keep dry. I keep rowing though I know not which direction I head, not which direction is up even. Am I borne over the water? or under it? To try to breathe would be the test, but I am too panicked to attempt it. I cannot see any land beyond the veil of mist. My only connection to the land is the wood of which my oars were carved and the slimy thwart I crouch upon, and when I finally breathe, I smell the oil of the pitch holding the planks together. I dread that I will never smell something as foul as tar again, nor anything but brine. My lungs are sogging and my breath is weak. I am drowning in the wind...

I know surrender. I stop my rowing and drift where the sea would carry me.