The waves beneath the side of the ferry part in frothy, white retort. Sun from the west strafes the Firth of Clyde and sets the water along the horizon gleaming like a polished broadsword. The town of Brodick clusters insignificantly to the north of Holy Isle, and the veiled Ailsa Craig peaks in the distance. Off the port side, a fishing boat plies the suddenly placid waters, heralded by the mournful cries of half a hundred seagulls swarming. Hot tea from earlier sours on my palate just as a bell clangs. And I stand in the heavy air clutching a box of raisins, shivering into the wind.
The passage across the Firth of Clyde to Arran lasts only a short time. It’s a transition period, from haven to haven, uncomfortably mirroring my mental landscape. I simply wish not to drown in the path I’ve set before me: to cross this channel to Arran, to cross these weeks to Sarah, to cross this chasm to prosperity. Force of will does not change the wind or set the waves crashing. It will always be invisible, its effects attributed elsewhere, its nature questioned again and again. It will only flicker in the shadows of myth until you willfully force yourself to jump, dive, quit.
Or so I repeat to myself as I cross the sea once more.