Chapter One

Marcine was envious of birds. He never said as much, but there was something in the way he followed their flight that made me think he wished to be so free. His eyes changed. They became light, joyous, yet a little sad when they looked back toward the ground. He looked as such as we stood on the balcony of my apartment. Seagulls drifted silently, for once, in the cloudy, windy sky. I could smell the sea, and from the safety of my vantage point, the Sound looked angry, rough. A lone sailboat struggled back to port. At the navy base sailors could be seen crawling over their ships. The fleet was due to leave the next morning. I wondered whether the storm, which seemed ready to rise, would keep the crowd from seeing them off. People never seemed as patriotic when it rained.

We went inside. I retrieved a bottle of wine and set it on the coffee table. Marcine smiled as we sat in the armchairs on either side of the table. I had not seen him for a year, and though he seemed no older, his face, which had always been calm, seemed wiser.

“So,” I said, “are you ready to tell me where you have been?” The subject had yet been breached in the hour since he turned up at my apartment. I remembered the last time I saw him; when I dropped him off to catch a flight to Mexico City. I received a message a week and a half later telling me that “something came up” and to not worry about picking him up. That was the last I heard from him, but there was nothing unusual about that. He was always changing his mind, flying off to odd corners of the world and falling in and out of love with strangers. That was simply Marcine.

“Mexico. Panama. Columbia. Chile.” He marked each nation by raising a finger. “Argentina. England. Hong Kong. Australia. New Zealand. India. Italy. I’m sure I forgot a few, but you get the idea.”

“Quite a three-week Mexican vacation.”

He laughed, and I realized how much I missed his company. It had always been that way with him though. He was simply not content living like the rest of us. Yet he was the kind of man stories were told about; the kind of man whom, in the right situation, becomes a hero or legend. At worst he is a ghost, passing through the world we all struggle with as if it did not affect him. For that I sometimes envied him.

“So tell me;” I said after a moment of silence, “you must have some stories. No one could pass a year like that and not have stories.”

“I have many.”

“Any in particular you wish to tell?”

“No, not really.”

“Then begin in Mexico, and if anything strikes your fancy, or mine, you can go into detail.”

“Sounds good, but first let’s order dinner. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

We ordered Chinese food from a small shop around the corner, and by the time we returned to our chairs, the deliveryman rang the intercom. We did not speak while we ate. I looked at Marcine, and he seemed distant, lost in a memory, I presume. I considered the list of countries he had rattled off. In the past year I had taken two weeks of vacation. One of those weeks I did not even go anywhere. The other I went skiing at a resort a mere three hours away. I wished sometimes I could simply drift like he did, but I did not have the money.

He sat back and sighed when he finished his meal. He looked content, as if at any moment, should he so choose, he could drift into a pleasant catnap. He looked good, youthful. At twenty-nine he could have passed for twenty-five, perhaps less. Although, looking in his eyes, I could have believed he was in his mid thirties. There was something almost ageless about him. He waited until I finished eating and then began to tell of his travels.

He spent three days in Mexico City, mostly poking around the Aztec ruins.

“It must have been an amazing place.” He said of Tenochtitlán. “It’s too bad the cultures here were killed off when the Europeans came. They seem to have figured a few things out that European thought will never deduce. Of course I’ve not read too much on it, but it seems they might have had a chance, even against the European weapons, if they had not been stricken by the influx of new diseases. It reminds me of War of the Worlds, except in reverse. Instead of the vast fleet of invaders being subdued by a new disease, a handful of invaders subdued entire civilizations, often without knowing it, by the germs and viruses they carried with them. All I know is that it is preposterous that the people living here before Europeans are called uncivilized, or even savage. I guess it falls in with the line of thought of thinking of people not as people, or of as lesser people. I will never fully comprehend how anyone thinks like that. We are all people. We all feel. We all live. We all have faults and good qualities. We may be different, but in no way should that justify beliefs of such superiority. But I suppose, no matter how little I understand such thoughts and feelings, they have existed and will continue to exist. It is just ridiculous, and sad, what people do to each other.”

Marcine has always been an idealist of sort. I think, though he fully accepts the way people actually are, he has never been able to ignore the feeling that the world, and human interaction, could be much better.

He left Mexico City in a rental car and drove towards the gulf. When he reached the coast, he drove leisurely north for a few days before stopping in a small town with only one hotel.

“A picturesque little place.” He called it. “I think normally it would have been quite relaxing, but as it was, the residents were bustling about in preparation for a hurricane. Already the wind was furious; the sky in turmoil. I remember driving that day, watching the battered trees along the roadside and the gray, angry, waves in the gulf. I took a room and then helped nail boards over the windows.

“That was a long night, listening to the thunderous rains pound against the side of the hotel. The entire building shook, and the way the roof rattled, I expected at any moment for it to be blown off. But I fell asleep, at least for a few hours. When I awoke, it did not seem so severe, and I ventured to open the door and look at the sea. Dawn was yet come, but a faint light had arisen. To my surprise a yacht rolled on the waves just off shore. Then, as the waves turned, a small boat rose into view, struggling toward land. It did not seem to be making any progress. I walked to the ocean and in the glimpses took it all in. A man and woman rowed against the rough waves, but it seemed for every yard they made toward shore, they were sent back toward the boat nearly as far. It would have taken hours for them to make it, if they ever did. And the storm was drawing closer. I could see the churning thunderclouds to the east; lightning flashes intermixed with the black of thick clouds. It was surreal. Then I did perhaps the most foolish thing I have ever done.

“I dove within the waters and began to swim toward the boat. It was difficult to say the least, but the same turn of waves that kept them from shore brought me towards them. I do not know how long it took, but it seemed as if I was swimming for hours. The waves tossed me about effortlessly, but I kept swimming and was able to keep a relatively straight course.” Marcine paused for a moment. He seemed to be remembering that swim, attempting to put into words the struggle of a man fighting at every moment against the sea to retain his life. No matter what words he might have used, it would have been much less telling than the look on his face.

“It took, I think,” he continued, “three attempts to clamber into the boat when I reached it. I did not say anything as I took the oar from the woman. She sat in the back of the boat with a child I had not noticed from shore. She held the boy in one arm and tried to steer with the boat’s motor, which, obviously, had not worked. I glanced at the man beside me. He seemed exhausted, but it took all my strength to keep up with him. I stared at the approaching storm and rowed. I thought of nothing. My muscles ached; they burned with exhaustion. The wind grew stronger, and the rain, which had been a light mist, began to bombard us. Then, after a timeless age of stroke after stroke, the boat ground on the shore and soon I found myself clutching the woman to my side while we struggled against the wind toward the hotel. The man carried the small boy. It was hard to walk. I seriously believed, after all that, we might be blown away by the increasing wind. We paused at a group of palm trees. How they bowed, leaning over us first in one direction and then another. I remember exchanging a wordless look with the man. His face was full of relief. He nodded his head with sincere thanks and then, holding the boy to his bosom, began to crawl to the hotel. The woman and I followed, leaning against each other as we crawled, occasionally stopping to withstand an exceptionally fierce gust of wind. Ahead of us the man had reached the restaurant of the hotel, and now stood in the open door way waving his arm with encouragement.

“When we made it through, I stood up and helped three other men close the door. We were almost not strong enough. Then I sat on the floor against the wall. The man and woman embraced and cried. The child had already fallen asleep. There were about a dozen people in the room, and they talked erratically. Then their voices became distant, and I too drifted into sleep.

“When I awoke, it was eerily quiet. I looked around the room and everyone was asleep, except the owner of the hotel, who sat behind the bar reading a book. When I walked up to him, he smiled and told me I had slept through the entire first half of the storm. I had been asleep for about twenty hours, and the town was now in the eye of the hurricane. He brought me some dinner, and as I ate, the wind began again to stir.

“The strength of the storm was incredible. When it finally petered out the next day, I ventured outside and looked at the damage. One of the cars outside the hotel had been flipped over and lay at least a hundred feet from where it had been parked. Trees lay on the ground; large trees which would have seemed immovable by any force but time or man.

“That was all the time I spent in Mexico. While waiting out the hurricane I had talked briefly with the man and woman from the yacht. It was too loud most of the time to really carry on a decent conversation, but he thanked me for my help and we talked a little of ordinary things. His name was Miguel, his wife’s Rosario and their son; I forget the son’s name. Anyway, they were returning to Colombia from Havana, and in the course of the following days, they invited me to join them. They even offered to pay the airfare back from Bogotá. I, obviously, accepted the offer. Amazingly their yacht was nearly unscathed from the hurricane. Honestly, they would have been safer aboard the boat. It definitely would have been safer for me, but then I never would have found myself, a few days after the storm, laying beneath the Caribbean sun, chatting with a beautiful Colombian woman. And she was beautiful too, and charming. We had a great time together.

“Miguel was pleasant as well. He never said where or how he had earned his wealth, nor did I consider it polite to ask, but he was loaded, and he spent freely. Their cupboards were filled with the most expensive foods. Their clothes were the finest. When we stopped at towns along the way, we always ate at the best restaurants. It was grand, and the best thing about it was that money was never mentioned. He was truly wealthy; enough that he did not care if anyone knew he had money or not. You know what I mean. People who are not comfortable with their wealth try to show it off. When they order a hundred dollar bottle of wine, they make sure everyone knows how much it costs them. They are the kind of people that pay exorbitant amounts of money for art just so they can tell people how much they paid, irregardless of whether they like the piece of art or not. Miguel was not like that. Later, when I spent a week in his house, the paintings all had a similar feel to them. Some were different styles, but looking at them, I could tell they had all been picked by people who chose what they liked, not what was expensive or considered the thing to have.

“He was also a well educated. They both were for that fact. I think I may have enjoyed most the nights we spent at sea. After anchoring, the three of us would often sit up almost until dawn conversing about a wide spectrum of ideas. I have never witnessed stars so beautiful as those nights, even in the travels I took afterwards. I think because all three of us were so at ease. They were good people.

“I can still here him talking about the chaos of life for most people in Colombia. I admit, it seemed a little hypocritical for him, sitting where he was, to discourse on the injustices people had to deal with, but if nothing else, I believe his humanity was in earnest.

“I was with them about three and a half weeks, down the Mexican coast, through the Panama Canal and finally to Buenaventura, the port town in Colombia where they lived. Like I said, I spent a week with them there before taking leave, and that seems a nice place to take a break. You seem to be drifting.”

It was true. I normally would have been in bed long before, and the wine had begun to take hold. “I’m not used to being up this late.” I told him honestly. “And I do have to work tomorrow.”

“Well then, shall we continue tomorrow, or do you have plans?”

“Nothing binding.” I yawned. “And tomorrow’s Friday, so we can talk all night if it takes that long, considering you’ve covered what, a month?”

He smiled and jumped to his feet. I began to get up but let myself fall back in the chair.

“Don’t worry, I’ll show myself out.” He said, and then he was gone.

Left alone, my eyelids grew heavy, and soon I was in the realm of half sleep, images of hurricanes and Latino women streaming through my dreams. Then the faint sound of a radio, the realization of daylight, and my eyes sprang open. It was morning, and the alarm had already been playing for half an hour.

Chapter Two

“Let’s see, where did we leave off?” said Marcine. We again were seated in my living room, having only a few minutes earlier returned from dinner at a nearby restaurant. He let a puff of smoke into the air. I did likewise. Neither of us smoked, but he had managed to bring some Cubans into the country, and it seemed right after a fulfilling meal to sit with a glass of brandy and a fine cigar.

“Colombia.” I answered.

“Oh, yes;” he replied, “taking leave of Miguel and Rosario. Correct?”

I nodded and coughed. Even a good cigar fills the lungs with smoke. It is such a foolish thing. Although, there was a good feeling after awhile.

“Somewhere it came up,” he continued after I stopped coughing, “that I had always thought it would be exciting to travel through South America by horseback, and as a last gesture of thanks, Miguel gave me one of his horses, as well as a stack of different currencies totaling about ten thousand dollars.

“He had some exquisite horses; thoroughbreds; an Arabian; even an appaloosa. They were beautiful creatures. We spent one afternoon at his stables. What I remember most of that day is when they let the horses into a field so they could exercise. Such power. Such grace. There was a freedom in watching them run. It made me feel good to be alive. Why? Simply because they seemed to enjoy life.”

His eyes had the same sparkle as when he gazed upon birds in flight. I wondered if my face ever shone so bright.

“My own horse,” he continued, “was not as fine as those I saw that day, but he was gentle and kind. His name was Pancho. He was a bit of a mutt, but the two of us got along well.

“And it was great traveling that way. It is peaceful, natural. I headed south, winding my way along dirty jungle roads and narrow mountain paths. So many memories rise just at the edge of my mind. Monkeys screeching in the trees, clambering about the many branches, cackling with laughter. Colorful birds and flowers which shrouded nature in a hue I had never before seen. Small villages in which but a few people spoke Spanish. Waterfalls descending from the clouds, as if, though I knew so much better, they fell from a river in heaven. Snakes, so hideous yet beautiful, wrapped around tree branches and slithering deftly amongst the weeds. Laying beneath the stars in a field of chest high grass, listening to the breathing of my horse and the congregation of strange, wild, sounds. Considering that each of these sounds was life; that each creature, no matter how repugnant or beautiful, had at least that thing in common with me. A jaguar streaking through the bushes, almost silent; beautiful. I stopped to look at a paw print on a muddy road. It dwarfed my hand.

“I went fishing with some locals on a little lake in the mountains. I don’t even know what country we were in. They still used reed canoes and small nets, catching each day little more than they used that day. I sat up late at night around a fire talking with them. We spoke of fishing. We told stories. I can’t remember much of what was said, but there was a simple camaraderie with them.” Marcine paused while I retrieved the brandy bottle from the kitchen counter. “I think the village was about sixty people. It was a community in a sense I had never felt before; something so entirely different from the civilized world. I guess it was more pure. They had no grand set of laws. There was no bureaucracy. No unnecessary waste. Their only business was life. Did they care that they had no automobiles, televisions or newspapers? Of course not.

“Only a couple of the younger men spoke Spanish, and at that not very well. My Spanish, though it had improved vastly, was also a little shaky. Still, I spent a week with those people, sharing both work and play, food and laughter. It was great. That entire time was great, wandering through the vast, wild land. No one bothered me. I did not get sick. The animals left me alone. I had only myself, Pancho and the various strangers to cross my path.

“Eventually I wound my way into Chile. It was probably about two and a half months after I left Buenaventura that I returned to the Pacific Ocean. I do not know how far south I was, but imagine my great delight when I crested a path and it revealed not only the ocean but a rocky beach filled with penguins.

“I spent a day and a half there just watching them go about their daily lives. It was amazing. They are such simple creatures, yet there was a pleasantness in their interaction. They were amusing too, just standing about squawking. And one of the most amusing scenes I have ever seen was when Pancho walked out a ways toward them, nibbling at little shoots of grass growing between the rocks, and he was surrounded by a group of penguins. I took a couple pictures of it. Hopefully they turn out.

“Anyway, after I left the penguins, I headed inland in a southerly direction. I think it was the next day that I met Tomás. I owe much to this man, as you shall see. He came to Chile from Spain about fifty years ago and has spent every day since tending a small flock of sheep some fifteen or twenty miles from the nearest village. And though he was well into his seventies, he was a vigorous man. Not once in the months I was with him did I see him rest from weariness. He made his own clothing and lived primarily on cheese, milk and potatoes from his own garden. He also maintained a small patch of corn, as well as a grove of about twenty fruit trees. He was entirely self-reliant.

“He had lived in solitude for the past eight years; since his wife had passed away. He did not speak oft of her, but it was obvious that he still missed her and shall for the remainder of his life. By what he told me, they used to share every moment together, and I got the impression that he had been happy his entire life until she passed. Even after his loss, at least when I knew him, he seemed to enjoy life, but there was, he admitted, too much time in the day now that she was gone.

“I spent two and a half months with him. The first few weeks I accompanied him in his daily routine. We did not speak a great deal, but I felt comfortable with him, as if, had there been anything important, no matter what the subject, we could have spoken of it. Such a feeling I have felt with no one else. There are certain things I do not speak of to anyone, my deepest dreams and thoughts on life and love, yet had he asked to hear them, I would have spoken with joy. I’m not entirely sure why, but I think because he was free.”

Marcine stubbed the butt of his cigar in the bowl we were using as an ashtray. My cigar, only half gone, smoldered beside it. He adjusted himself in his chair.

“After I had been with him a few weeks, it rained heavily while we were out with the flock. Returning to Tomás’ house we had to cross a stream that had been engulfed by the downpour. The adult sheep had no problem fording the water, but a lamb lost its footing and was swept away. I happened to be a little downstream, watching the animals cross. Jumping into water, it was only up to my waist, I was able to corral the bleating kid, but in doing so I lost my footing. After maybe fifty yards I was able to regain my feet and carry the shivering animal ashore. I had been crashed a few times on some rocks, but it was nothing serious. The bruises would heal in a couple of weeks. I had also swallowed quite a bit of water. This would not pass so harmlessly.

“We returned to the house, and I dried out by the fire while Tomás made dinner. I shivered a little, but when I was dry, I felt fine. We ate, talked a little and then went to bed. I do not remember the next month. According to Tomás I spent that time in a delirious fever, thrashing about in bed, talking sporadically. I have vague remembrance of my body being extraordinarily weak and sickly. I remember, when the fever finally broke, awakening to find Tomás at my side, staring at me with a mild compassion in his eyes. I remember him saying good morning as if it had been but the night before that I had lain down to sleep. I was so weak. My mouth tasted of disease. It was such a terrible feeling lying there helpless, unable to lift even my arm. Tomás fed me, as he had been doing throughout the sickness. For days I did nothing but sleep and eat. Every time I woke up Tomás was there, beside the bed. I asked about his flock. He shrugged it off and told me to sleep. I never did find out how he managed it, but the sheep were all healthy when I was finally well enough to go outside. “It was about seven weeks from the day I fell in the stream until I was able to leave bed. I do not know what it was either. Tomás said he regularly drank from that stream and had never gotten sick. It may have been some rogue virus or bacteria. Or I may have been bitten by a mosquito and contracted malaria; falling in the river merely a coincidence. Irregardless, it was probably the worst experience of my life. I never want to feel so empty again. It was terrible. And that is what I remember. I guess it is good I cannot remember the worst of it, but there is part of me that wants to know how greatly I suffered. I guess it is this; it is an experience I would have never desired, but that I have had it, I wish I had the memory of it. I think it is there though, inside. I have had some terrible dreams since then.”

Marcine rose from his chair and walked to the bathroom. While he was gone I started a fire in the gas fireplace and dimmed the overhead light. It gave the room a cozy, welcoming, feeling. Too few were the nights I lit the room as such and relaxed with a novel and a cup of tea. My life was simply too busy to relax very often. I also watched too much television, sitting sometimes for hours, changing channels at random. I suppose that is relaxing in a way, but does not have the calming effect of a quiet evening conversing with a friend or reading a good book before a fireplace or the open vista of nature, as seen from the balcony. Sometimes I get so caught up in the every day acts of living, I forget to pause and enjoy the simplest pleasures of this life.

Chapter Three

“Tomás once told me,” Marcine continued, “that this life is like a maze in which we all begin and end at different points. Yet many roads intersect or join, sometimes for but a moment, sometimes for almost an entire lifetime. He and his wife traveled the same path for many years, but while she reached the end of her journey, his continued. Such as my path joined with his for a time and then parted. ‘There is no grief,’ he told me, ‘as we reach this intersection for we have journeyed together in genuine amiability. I say only this to you my friend; keep to your path. Be leery of those that would draw you down their own for, though you may find joy for some time, you will at the end reach a juncture when you realize you have become lost. And then what shall you do? In this maze of life one cannot retrace his steps but instead must wander aimlessly in hopes that he might once again find himself on the road he was meant to travel down.’

“When at last I walked away from him, I simply said, ‘Thank you.’ In reply he wished me a safe journey, and I turned my back from his simple life and continued south. I left Pancho there. He seemed happy roaming about the fields with the sheep, and Tomás agreed to keep an eye on him. At the next village, after waiting a few days, I caught a ride to a small town, where I caught a bus to Punta Arenas, a city at the southern end of Chile. It was a relaxed town, although after the previous months everyone seemed to be rushing frantically about. I put up at a small hotel overlooking the Strait of Magellan and lost myself in thoughts of times past when ships passed through those waters as the only means to reach the Pacific coast of the Americas. There were a few ships in port, but nothing compared to what it would be like if the Panama Canal did not exist. Between that and the Suez canal, it is amazing to consider how drastically the shipping lanes have been changed.

“After about a week I decided it was time to head home. It had been about five months since you dropped me off at the airport, and honestly, I was tired of speaking Spanish. I had become used to it, but it was still something I had to think about. I guess I missed being able to converse naturally, without having to remember or translate words in my brain. Oh, sure, I was fine with the daily interactions; shopping, checking into a hotel or a friendly chat about the weather with a stranger; but I could only express myself to a certain point. Even then, when I had been speaking Spanish exclusively for five months, I could not have sat with someone and spoken such as I have with you these last few days. I wish I could. I truly wish I could go anywhere in the world and converse with anyone with ease and understanding. It is a pointless desire, I know, but I cannot help imagining how grand it would be, at least in one way, to always be on equal footing with people.”

Marcine leaned toward the fire and was silent.

“Seven months.” I said.

“What?” He looked up.

“Seven months;” I reiterated, “You still have seven months to cover.”

“Yes, yes.” He answered with a smile. “How easy it is to say, but I was just considering how long ago it seems that I left Chile. Change is odd that way. It draws out time. The years I have spent in one place; they pass quickly, and the memories, while pleasant, fade leisurely into the past. These memories, this past year, will also fade, but they have taken more time to record, from my perception, than those other years, and as such, shall remain more vivid. I doubt I shall ever forget Rosario, Miguel, Tomás, nor those Incan villagers whose names I never could properly pronounce. Yes, the memories will deteriorate a little, I will forget their names, but when I am old, laying down on my deathbed, they, and all the other faces that have crossed my path in more than a passing exchange, shall be with me. I doubt I shall ever forget the sound of a penguin’s squawk as he walks freely along the beach, or the smell of tropical flowers as the evening wind stirs their humid fragrance. I close my eyes, and I can see a rocky path I traveled down somewhere in the Andes; I can feel Pancho’s breath as he walks behind me. Snow capped mountain peaks and lush valleys of fruit trees and monkeys. Desert plains. Ocean shores. The smell of the sea from a dozen different ports, all similar, yet each unique. The familiar sight of a friend at a journey’s end.” He tipped his brandy glass in my direction. “All these things form me, create me one moment at a time. And though I know it is something that is rarely said, I say it now: I love life. I love every up and down, every face and passing thought; the grand construction of this earth, from the smallest grain of sand to the largest cloud spread mountain-like in the sky. The world is beautiful. Life is beautiful. Oh how I wish that people would take the time to see it; to feel it. In everything there is wonder. I hold this glass in my hand and swirl about the brandy. How majestically the reflection of the flames churns before my eyes. I look upon your smiling face and am filled with joy that you, my friend, are happy. What is there more grand than this? Feeling, the true perception of feeling, is paramount for in it is everything beautiful, wondrous. That I could share the joy in my heart for this existence; to be able to impart the blessed peace within my soul so that you might know what I feel and tell me whether it is equivalent to anything you have before known. Oh, that I could clasp the world to my bosom and spread my happiness through its veins.”

It is hard to describe the feelings I felt listening to Marcine speak. Part of me was taken up by his joy; his sparkling eyes which shone with the reflection of the flames, as well as with another, inner, light. Yet how could I not be envious of him? Irregardless of what he felt, the fact that he could say such words with such glowing sincerity; how my heart ached that I could do the same.

Chapter Four

We sat in silence for some time, gazing at the fire, absorbing the warmth that had risen between us. I would like to say I thought great thoughts or was changed in some profound way, but the truth is, I did not think; I cherished the calm that had taken hold of me and found myself overwhelmed by an affinity for all things. Thinking back on it, I believe I was so taken up by his words and the peaceful glow of his countenance, I could not help but feel remarkably pleasant.

“In a tavern,” Marcine broke the silence after what seemed the appropriate interlude, “I overheard a couple of English sailors talking. It seems their cook had taken ill and could not complete the trip back to England. As neither of them looked forward to cooking for themselves or eating cold food, I volunteered my services in exchange for passage. They readily accepted and the next day introduced both myself and the idea to their captain.

“He was all I ever imagined a British captain to be; quiet, astute and filled with a seemingly endless knowledge of seafaring. It seemed almost a shame he commanded a giant metal cargo ship instead of a wooden galleon. He was skeptical of the idea at first, but after we had talked awhile, he agreed and I made myself home in a tiny cabin at the back of the galley.

“Honestly, there is not too much to tell. I was up early every morning to cook breakfast. I kept the galley clean, fixed the meals and made sure there was food handy for the night crew. It’s not like you read about in books, in centuries past. While the quarters were cramped, they were not unbearable. The crew was small. I worked, but the hours were not terrible. Actually, I saw little of anyone, except at meal times, which was fine by me. I think I enjoyed most the early morning hours, looking out upon the black ocean and then up at the stars. They seemed so large, bright. It was peaceful, but almost unbearably empty. It must be absolutely terrible to be stranded at sea, alone, with that same endless black stretching out in every direction. I guess it makes one appreciate the land for there, no matter what, you have always your feet to carry you, and if you become tired, you may lay down to rest. But in the sea; you cannot rest lest you sink down and die. There is hopelessness in the sea. Even on that giant ship, I felt it. We were but a handful of men, days from any shore, pushing into the black night where sometimes it was impossible to tell where the sea was at an end and the sky began. How fragile this life seemed; how inconsequential humanity appeared in that light for we, as a whole, are likewise bound upon this earth while it rides endlessly along the empty waves of space.

“In England, the captain asked me if I wanted to stay on board for a while, perhaps just for one more cruise, or maybe for a few. I only last week disembarked the ship in San Francisco. In the months between, we circled the entire globe transporting various goods from one port to another. But of adventures or things I can tell, there are few. Yes, I now know the smell of the streets in Hong Kong while straggling about half blind with drunkenness in the wee hours of the morning, but this is an intangible thing which one can know only by experience. I have seen the sun rise off the coast of China and watched it set in Spain. There are so many faces that have passed by, so many fleeting conversations and fading looks. For it all, I understand the world better. I understand, a little, what it is like to be a butcher in Calcutta or a waiter in Tel Aviv. I have walked the streets in many towns in which the signs were foreign, the words a blur of incomprehensible sounds. But of this, I have learned one thing be true; we are all people. Anywhere you go in this world you will find people that smile, people that frown, are happy, sad and every possible mood or feeling between. Everywhere there are men and women. Everywhere they interact with differing results and ease. Yes, cultures form us differently, plague our minds with prejudices and stereotypes, but at the end, we all hold a common bond. This thought is not grand, it has been said before, but I now feel its truth. I think it struck home when I was at a restaurant in Florence and at the table next to me a family sat eating dinner. They laughed and joked the same as any family might in any city in any century, whether at home or on vacation. They were people being people. And then I remember the youngest child of that family, a girl, looking at me and smiling shyly before turning back to her meal. She looked back again a few minutes later and I smiled back. She laughed shortly and turned to her dinner. A few more times we exchanged such simple looks, and then as I rose to leave, she turned one last time and waved goodbye. I returned in kind and left with the feeling that no matter what I do or where I go in life, I have a bond with people; we all are human; we all feel.”

Marcine looked at me once more with a warm twinkle in his eye and then rose from his chair. He placed his hand warmly on my shoulder as he passed my chair on his way to the door.

“I’ll see you around.” He said, and then he was gone. I saw him a few more times, and then he was off again, out searching for whatever he seeks in life. I have never been able to figure out exactly what that is, or whether he will ever find it, but I have the odd feeling that it is something simple; something the rest of us most often overlook.