↑ Vantage pt for Jay Levine at tippity top of crow's nest before he jumped.
Das Boot: the first and perhaps most profound of the Dreamscape categories in that it describes not only the day-to-day adventures of a Caribbean escape, but also a moment that was much of a fulcrum or a rubicon for everyone involved, both a gathering and a dispersal. They were all twenty-four or twenty-five years old, an age where everything in the past seems like prologue and the next turned page is where the story really begins. There was a lot of debate about what comes next: plans hatched, destinies reconsidered. And soon after: Sebastian heading for Brazil, Christoph to Argentina, Helene to New Zealand, our pal Jayson and Natalie both to New York City. And the more we studied these pages, the stronger the urge became to apply allegory and deeper significance to everything that was written. And although 'reality' strongly resists such neat and tidy structuring, nonetheless here it is.
-- Eds
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Das Boot (17/33)
December 17, 1990
Choose a different dreamscape
Mom’s official bday. Already past, as I sit, again, evening, alone! And that’s ½ the story because all others (Sebastian, Chris, Helene, Natalia, Mr. Dexter) have chosen to sleep in the soft white sand of the beautiful beach near which we dock. So I am alone, all alone, on the boat and perhaps, as being alone entitles one to any claim of position + rank, and as such being the case, I choose the title of captain (first + foremost), then skipper, first and second mate, and as all these positions pertain, I may just take this puppy for a spin. Nach! But anyway, I believe that sleeping alone on this drifting cocoon equals in intensity + adventure any shut-eye found on land. So…
But why am I not also snuggled deep in a blanket, listening to the rustling whispered tickling of the palm fronds which flicker the star swept night? Well, you see, the bad burn which I tried so hard to prevent has, against all precaution, tinted my back to a rosy hue of heat! Hurts. Not acute, but bad enough to suggest the convalescence of sheltered sleep. Also, warmth. And ALSO not to be forgotten: foregoing the frivolities of beach-sleep allows me a relaxing and unpressured sojourn with my good friend, the journal; no Dexter tossing nearby; no Christoph muttering about battery wear.
And dolphins appeared like magic around our bow yesterday! As we approached Tobago Cays they scattered from the bow, then followed the boat for 10 mins in a crisscrossed, looping wonder. A sight I will not soon forget. Steel-gray backs shining as they rise to inhale, then swooping below, still clear and defined beneath the clear surface. Effortlessly arrowing next to us, crisscrossing the bow, shiny spraying bodies that torpedo and rise, slick and smooth, curving together and splitting apart. Right there! An arm’s length from us. Until Christoph hung his feet toward the water and pft… gone. Must have been twenty of them at least.
Much productivity and boat-work today. After swim to, and brief exploration of, the island that nuzzles our stern. Began w/scrubbing one side of a barnacle-encrusted hull. Just the barnacles, mind you. Tomorrow, depending on status of my poor seared flesh, I shall scrub the seaweed as well.
Progressed to an extended perusal of Mimic Men, of which I am thoroughly if not exasperated than surely satiated. Then a repeated dissection of the sink pump which, in this instance, proved successful! Then on and up to the further frustration and semi-complete failure on the windsurfer which I broke before attaining the status of true imbecile.
Then a splendid picnic dinner of soy burgers and white beans, cooked over open fire on the white sand of our very own (almost) beach. Delicious!
But we are out, dry, kaput, arid and empty in terms of fresh water. Like… bone. Gasp.