A Sailors Will - Sid Frazier

Fighting the great sea, a fathomless, incomprehensible beast, a power of the earth itself, is– in most cases– a hopeless effort. 

Above the surface, it rages against the land and wind. In its fury, it twists and tumbles upon itself, a tumultuous force of nature, crashing into anything that dares to stand against it. Caught in it, there is nothing but more sea. You are beaten and smothered until it has you in its grasp, until you have no other option but to sink. 

Below the surface is a deep stillness. The warring waves far above you, the glittering sunlight, slowly leaving you– filtered out by pound after pound of deafening silence. You are left to drift lifelessly to the floor, where only bare skeletons and red-eyed creatures dwell. You have nothing left to do but welcome your death in the dark.

But still, he fought. He did not know if his limbs were still moving, he did not know if his eyes were open or shut. He knew, though, that he was not going to die here. He was going to make it home, to the creaky little town on that rocky shore. He was going to come back. He was going to keep his word. To him, there was no other option, he would not die here. He willed it so. But to the dark waters of the ocean, there was no other option but to pull him ever closer to his end. And that was death’s will.

Death was a shadow, not a bright, holy light– that was far gone, dispersed by the yawning dark. Death was a shadow that emerged slowly from the most unfathomable depths of the sea. Or rather it simply grew, farther and wider, stretching from coast to coast, creeping up to meet him. All encompassing, smothering, deafening. 

Death was hard to look at, with a hundred yellow eyes and a hundred reaching hands. It’s skin, ever-changing as the tide, a hypnotic, rhythmic pattern. It seemed to be in constant motion, but stagnant all the same– still as the ocean deep. 

Death felt like a blanket, wrapped tight around his lungs and hanging heavy on his heart. It would put him to eternal sleep, away from the biting wind and roaring chaos above. It would deliver him peace. It would bring him an end. 

But he would not take it. He willed it so. 

All became very still, even in the undisturbed water he was suspended in, as death spoke to him.

“Rest, sailor. Your time above the waves is no more.”

Its words did not affect him. “I will not. I will not believe that.”

“The quiet of your end is more peace than you will ever know, more tranquility than you can fathom. Rest, now.”

“I will not.”

“You will. Your end is here, the darkness is all you have left. Rest.”

In the darkness the sailor thought of the lighthouse adjacent to the ramshackle town. Forever turning– a warning, a welcome, a beacon– calling him home. He thought of the figure, silhouetted by the lamp, waving to him and growing smaller, ever smaller, as he sailed out to sea. He thought of his promise to return. To return to the lighthouse, to return to the docks, to the market and the schoolhouse. To the merchant, and the whaler, and the logger. To the teacher and the orphan. To the lightkeeper. He thought of all the promises he would not keep, if this was his end. 

“Bring me back,” he said.

“To where, to what, sailor? What awaits you in the waking world is nothing to the sleep I offer you now.” 

“To the shore. You know whatI speak of.”

“Do you see it fit to make demands of me? Do you think life takes kindly to those who refuse death’s gift? I am the end of all things, the undeniable finality of the universe. I am a promise to all that draw breath. Can you break that promise for me, sailor, to keep your own?”

The lighthouse, spinning in the dark, around and around. If he listened carefully enough, he could hear the foghorn. 

“Yes.”

“Nothing but death is free, and you bargain for your life. You know you will pay dearly for it.”

The waves crashing on the rocky shore. A cliffside dotted with houses made of rotting wood. A child playing in the street. 

“Yes.”

“I will not ask for a price, but I will give you one. And you will live your earned life with it. Do not return to me, begging for what you already refused, until you have paid that price.”

“Will I know when I have?”

“You will.”

 

He heard a great noise, growing louder and clearer until the water drained from his ears. He awoke to the rhythmic rushing of waves, cresting and falling upon the shore, upon his sleeping form. He felt the gritty sand under his hands, and the dampness of his clothes upon his skin. He felt cold and weary, and as he began to move he wretched up a great amount of seawater. But he felt and he heard. The world was not silent and unmoving, the air was not suffocating. He was not suspended in the dark any longer. He was alive.

He stood, slowly and shakily, like a newborn. He took a few stumbling steps forward, remembering what it was like to feel blood moving in his veins, feel his sore bones carrying his weight. He turned his eyes forward, and was greeted by a light. The great lamp of the lighthouse spun as it always did, welcoming him home. There was no waving figure that stood before it. 

He looked back, over the sea. It stretched out into the fog, fading into the mist– a shroud hung over it now, like a curtain on a stage. What lurked behind it was unknown, though he knew death still lingered, somewhere in the deep, waiting for its price to be paid. 

The foghorn sounded, calling out across the clouded horizon, warning ships of the rocks that lay in wait for them if they were to get too close.

-May the Mountains

 

The mountains stood like they had been there forever, unshaken since the dawn of time. As I looked out across the landscape of western North Carolina, I witnessed a beauty I had not seen before. It was like seeing the ocean for the first time, how the mountains rolled out until I couldn’t see them anymore– how they disappeared into the sky.

But at the bottom of the mountain too– was nature on a scale I had not yet seen. It was dark under the trees’ canopy. They were so tall, and thick, and old, that not even direct light could reach the floor. And as we drove up, it was dense forests and running creeks in the dim light under the ancient trees. It was a journey, just from the bottom to near the top, to the cabin my family had rented that summer. Through the dark and up, until it all opened and you could see the world spread out before you. It was grand, and huge, and nothing like the familiar fields and woods of Ohio.

Seeing them was like being scared without fear. So big you feel like you should be afraid of them, towering and colossal as they are– so big you remember how small you are. But it was comforting too– no matter where you were, you could see the mountains. They were always there, cradling you in their valleys or holding you up to see everything from above. They stood like a shelter or a barrier, shielding you from whatever was on the other side– like millenia-old sentinels of the earth.

And that they are. The Appalachian mountains are some of the oldest mountains on the planet. They predate humanity. They even predate dinosaurs. Millions of years of Earth’s history has included the Appalchian mountains. Generations of people have walked its trails, climbed to its peaks, lived in its valleys. The mountains themselves, in the history of Appalachia, often acted as a barrier– being difficult and dangerous to traverse. It kept people out, but it also kept people in. The isolation the mountains provided forced settlers to be self-sufficient and reliant on the resources around them. The forests, and the plants and animals within them, were essential to survival. The nature of the mountains was utilized by all. So how much history has been preserved in its soil? How much of it can be seen in the plants and animals that inhabit them now? How much of our history is present in nature? 

As stated by the 2022 exhibit, Plants and People, created by the Appalachian Forest NHA, when European settlers and Black Americans arrived in Appalachia, many Indigenous tribes taught them how to rely on the forests. They shared their knowledge of the seasons, of the fruits and herbs that grow in spring, summer, and autumn, and of the sugar that can be found within the maple trees in the winter. They taught them which leaves and roots had medicinal uses, that boneset helped with fever and yarrow with sores. That tea could be brewed with mullein leaves to make a painkiller, and chewing sassafras root could remove the smell of onion from your breath. They taught these people that all you need could be found in nature, even beyond food and medicine. Fiddles were made of cornstalk and horse hair. Hunting knives made of bone. Baskets made of wood. Clothes dyed in hickory and goldenrod. Weaving, crafting, singing, dancing– almost every aspect of life was influenced by or originated in the nature of the mountains.

So when I walked in the woods of Appalachia, how close was I to the people who walked before me? With ginseng at my feet and sassafras above me, did I stand where once someone crouched to dig for roots, stooped to pick an herb? Did I pass trees once stripped to weave baskets and make medicine? Did I walk in footsteps tread thousands of years ago? Did we look out upon the same sunset? I think, in a place as dense and ancient as Applachia, the answer is often yes. 

The culture of Appalachia is inextricably tied to nature. Tied to the geography of the mountains and every plant and tree growing within them, every animal that calls it home. And I think this is the case for a lot of places on earth. Where would we be, without nature? Where would our cuisine be– our music and our medicine? Our art, our clothes? So much is lost, when we lose nature. So much is tied to it, so many strings that get cut when it’s removed. Not only do we lose the benefit that it physically brings to our world, to the ecosystem; but we also lose any future influences it could have on humanity, and we lose the humanity that had been influenced by it before– we lose our physical ties to history. 

There will never be new ground. There is nothing untouched by hands from generations ago. Nothing unmarred– lovingly, maliciously, indifferently, or otherwise– by people. We’re at a point in history where humanity is a constant. So when ground is upturned, built upon, destroyed, we are losing thousands– millions– of years of history. While the history itself, the thought of it isn’t gone, but the reminder of it, the physical embodiment of it, is lost. 

Where will humanity be when nature no longer influences us? When all we have is an idea of the past? What kind of music will we make after the final tree is felled and the last river is dammed? Will our art be devoid of color, uncaring and lifeless? Will our food be formless and synthetic? What will we be, without the earth? I don’t think I would ever want to find that question answered.

So may the mountains stand forever, to influence the next generation, and remember the last. May the rivers run on even after they reach the horizon, and may the trees grow so tall they reach the sun. May we see the value of nature, not just in the air we breathe or the food we eat, but also in the more intangible parts of our lives, our thoughts and our souls– our history. For when we walk over soil, it is not just our feet that touch the earth.