Migrations: a novel

We share a silence filled with the beauty of delicate white wings that carry a creature so far. I think of the courage of this and I could cry with it, and maybe there’s something in his eyes that suggests he understands a little of that.

The crew doesn’t want me here. They were bewildered when they heard the new plan, the new path. They’re frightened of sailing waters they don’t know, that their skipper doesn’t know. They resent me for it. But what they don’t suspect is that I love every second of the backbreaking, laborious eighteen-hour days. I have never been so exhausted in my lite, and it’s perfect. It means I sleep.

“There is pleasure in the pathless woods. There is rapture on the lonely shore. There is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar.” I smile. “Byron.” “Bless you, dear, I do love the Irish.” He pauses and grins. “And by God I love to fish.” But why? I want to ask. Why?

I lie in the sea and feel more lost than ever, because I’m not meant to be homesick, I’m not meant to long for the things I have always been so desperate to leave. It isn’t fair to be the kind of creature who is able to love but unable to stay.