A story from my new book of short stories “If You Believe”.

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There is a tide in the affairs of men.
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.

Shakespeare (Julius Cesar)

Sea and sky merge shades, from sapphire through azure to deepest navy, making it possible only to guess at the exact position of the horizon. The early moon throws a spotlight onto the rippling surface, which shatters it into a million tiny shards of glistening opalite that tumble over the tiniest of waves. An expanse with no end in every sense. The enormity of creation. The epitomy of wu wei.

A speck in the furthest distance. Another fragment of broken moonlight? A fallen star? As it rides the water’s current, slowly nearing, the billowing of a tiny sail brings forth a boat. Ivory silk, concave in the breeze, effortlessly skimming the ocean’s surface atop an unknown depth. En route to who knows where. A destination yet to be decided. But one it is fated to reach.

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Midnight sky. Opaque. The vague outline of charcoal clouds through a deluge that disturbs vision. The sea beset by droplets of ammunition which leave bullet marks that dissolve as quickly as they appear. A drum set belonging to the heavens beats out a rhythm – constant, quick, mezzo – the cymbals intervening, crescendo until…fortissimo, the conductor’s baton draws tree roots of electric light in every direction to punctuate the zenith. Nature’s symphony summiting.

The small sail disappears time and again over waves thrice the boat’s height. A miracle whenever it re-emerges from behind another wall of water. Thrown. Tossed. Perhaps tumbling in time with each cadence of its own, companion concerto.

The final bars of the piece are played piano, pianissimo. The sail gradually becomes visible more consistently, until its presence is constant once again.

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Against the smouldering sphere on the horizon, the sail is a piece of chipped china, blocking out triangular portions of its backdrop. Bobbing on the sea in front of a sky daubed with autumnal shades from pumpkin to salamander which meets the water in acrylic hues, some denser than others. Magenta. Cerise. Wine. Warmth can be seen, if not felt, the colours conveying the remaining heat from long, lethargic, summer hours. Serenity. The sail marks the start of a timer whose contents reflect upon and fall below the ocean. The final minutes of day ticking away, being counted down by flecks of light converted into grains of dropping sand.

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Cornflower sky. A ship made up of many times the little boat enters stage right, dragging itself across the vista. Head on collision seems unavoidable. The sail lets itself be carried lightly on the bow wake and at the last moment elegantly sidesteps the bigger vessel, artfully sliding before it. An eye floater as it crosses the heavy black hull. Parting, the two dance partners go their separate ways, effortless action resulting in their continued safety and course.

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Resting for a while on a still sea of turquoise. Cerulean patches where the seafloor is deeper and less light reflects off it. The golden orb plays hide and seek behind coconut clouds, the silken sail looking now alabaster, now chiffon. A white and black sea bird swoops out from the behind the cloth, flying low to cool its stomach with a splash, then rising up until it has a bird’s eye view of the scene.

It hovers overhead, watching a ridged trail begin to circle the boat. First clockwise. Then anticlockwise. Next in long, straight lines away from it, then back to it. One trail, then two, then three. The ridge becomes a bump beckoning at the surface. Come and see. Investigate the treasures held below. Acting on instinct, it remains airborne. The lump glides up and out of the water, curved, smooth, the sheen of dark wet skin. Accompanied by another. And another. Synchronously. Flowing resistance-free through the salty spray and gaining speed. A form, similar to a crescent moon, leaps out of the ocean and into the silent air. The only sound is one of water dividing and splashing down on either side. For a second, nothing. And then a beautiful, harmonious splosh as mammal and home meet again. The trails subside. The circles fade. The bird, finally daring to dive, dips down to search for remnants of what is now gone. Finding nothing, it soars gracefully over the undulating surface to perch on the stern, under the sail.

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The miniature vessel existing above the liquefied realm inhabited by so many living beings understands the art of Wu Wei. Learning from the sea, it cultivates a state of being where actions are gentle and aligned with the ebb and flow of this element of the natural world. With great ease and awareness it allows itself to observe all that happens around it. Pausing. Listening. Feeling. Without force. Responding. Not reacting. Doing nothing. Yet doing everything. Acting without action.