“A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know.” — Diane Arbus
The Red Boat
There is a harbor somewhere that only appears in fog. I stood at the edge of the pier, watching as the sailboats appeared and disappeared in the shifting mist, their masts like silent sentinels piercing the gold-tinted haze. The water below was impossibly still, creating mirror images of each vessel – reality and reflection becoming indistinguishable.
They say it lies just beyond the ordinary map, in a place the sea forgot how to name. In the mornings when the mist rolls in like a secret, the boats drift silently, untethered from time. You won't hear gulls here, nor the slap of water on hull. Only silence, thick as wool, and the low creak of the masts swaying like the breath of something sleeping. Then the dreams started. Of boats, of fog, of waiting...
I stood on the dock, soaked in morning haze. The red boat was the only one with color. It caught my eye – a splash of defiant color in the monochromatic seascape. Something about its presence amidst the others spoke to me. While the other boats seemed content to wait out the fog, this one appeared ready for departure, despite the conditions. Perhaps I was projecting, seeing purpose where there was none. It was always in my dreams, and it was here too. Real or not, I couldn’t tell. That’s how this place worked.
Every morning for a week, I returned to this spot. The fog lifted and descended with the changing tides, but the boats remained constant. I began imagining the lives of their owners – where they sailed, what they escaped from, what they sought. The harbor became my meditation, the gentle lapping of water against hulls my therapy.
On the eighth day, I noticed an old man approaching the red sailboat. His weathered face creased into a smile when he saw me watching.
"She's a beauty, isn't she?" he called.
I nodded, stepping closer. "I've been admiring her all week."
"Fog's lifting tomorrow," he said, looking skyward. "Taking her out at dawn. Could use a hand, if you're not busy."
I hesitated only briefly. "I don't know anything about sailing."
He laughed, a sound as unexpected and bright as the yellow boat. "Perfect. Means you haven't picked up any bad habits."
That night, I slept better than I had in months. By the time I reached the harbor the next morning, the promised clearing had begun. The mist was thinning, revealing glimpses of blue sky above. The old man – Jim – was already preparing the boat.
"Life's about moving forward," he told me as we cast off. "These boats aren't meant to stay anchored forever. Neither are we."
As we sailed beyond the harbor, I turned to watch the remaining boats grow smaller in the distance. For the first time in a long time, I felt the weight in my chest begin to lift, dissolving like the morning fog into the vastness of the waiting sea.