Ahoy

Some days I imagine what it would be like to live on a boat at sea. I'll be sitting at the reference desk idly spinning my chair from left to right, tapping a pencil against my lip, watching students bent over their books out on the floor. Before I realize it, the top floor rails are the rails of a boat deck, tables slam together into the parts and parcels of a classic pilot cutter ship, people scurry to rig ropes and set sails, and my desk becomes the captains wheel. I'm thrown from my chair to my feet, the pilot of this ship. Salt spray mists my cheeks, the tang of ocean fills my nostrils, and I smile at the sound of my boat creaking as it crests the waves and powers forth through the water.

The first mate is coming toward me, a smile on his face, his hand out flung with a finger pointing toward the setting sun. The great fiery ball of brilliant colors sinks into the far horizon, turning our faces into smiling gold masks. We begin to prepare for the night crew and for those who sleep, to set a slow steady course through the night. The first mate relates the status of the day, a litany I never tire of hearing. His words more like the sound of waves shushing on a shoreline than the hard, physical chores they are. His face animated, hands gesturing, I suddenly think, do I love this man?

This thought startles me. His face loses the golden cast of sunset and gains the harsh, washed out hue of overhead fluorescence. My first mate is no longer, and instead, an annoying undergraduate, equally annoyed at me for having to repeat his inane question, stands before me. With a sigh, I focus as best I can, hold my hands poised above the computer keyboard, ready to serve.