Coronado Dreaming (The Silver Strand Series) (16 page)

I think the dreams of Melody were so real to me because I could actually touch her and feel her warm, soft skin. In Comaville, there is no human contact… unless you count the times when Giddeon had helped me up after getting struck by a golf ball, clapped me on the shoulder because I had made a good chip shot, or picked me up off the sand after experiencing nuclear war or something else equally as horrible. Over there, I went right through people and animals… anything that was surrounded by a conscious, living field. I suppose Giddeon had been like that all of his life. No contact with anyone. No contact at all.

I wonder what that was like for a baby? Or, a child?

Touch is so much a part of who we are. There are millions of receptors embedded in our skin. Structures that relay information from the outside world to our inner domains. Structures that tell us the shapes and textures of objects… their temperatures and motions… their angles, protrusions and invaginations. These small neural endings assist us in decoding the material world around us; they protect us from harm and help us to survive.

Mostly, though, I think they’re there to feel for the ones we love.

The ones that mean something special to us. The people that we want to hold onto so very tightly before time can tear them from our grasp. I’m almost certain that the receptors exist so that we can know where the ones we love are located… and, so they, too, can know where it is we abide in this vast expanse of reality.

I think the receptors are in our skin so that when we touch, we are, also, touched.

When fingers intertwine, I believe, so can nervous systems. So can hopes and dreams. So can the never-ending multitude of pasts, presents and futures from every frame of reference within the countless infinities all around each and every one of us.

You see, when the proper digits hold on to each other, I think it’s possible for two people to become one organism, linked forever in a small embrace that transcends mortality.

And, even though I couldn’t touch her, I felt lucky… because out of all of the billions of inhabitants on this world, I knew just exactly who and where my soul mate was. I knew whose hand fit perfectly into mine.

Giddeon took me out sailing that morning. We motored from our berth, leaving Boris looking very perplexed on the dock. He loudly meowed his concerns to us, and kept looking back and forth between the actual boat in front of him, and our ghost ship making its way into the bay. I yelled to him that we’d be back, soon. He licked his paw, took a few steps in our direction, and stood there watching us with those big, yellow eyes… looking for all the world as if he wanted to go, too.

When we were the appropriate distance from the marina, Giddeon shut the engine down and began explaining the process of how to catch the wind and harness its power. He freed up the lines and showed me how to hoist the mainsail by pulling down on the halyard. Before that, he had pointed us into the wind and there was a minor amount of ‘luffing’ (a nautical word for the flapping around of a sail in the breeze) as the canvas went into place. Gid explained to me that too much luffing reduces the life of a sail, and care should be taken to minimize it… not that it really mattered in our frame of reference. The word ‘luff’ means the leading edge of the sail, by the way.

Then, we raised the jib, otherwise known as the head sail. When we were underway, Gid had me turn to port (left) until we were 90 degrees off the wind… he called that a ‘beam reach’… whereupon, we trimmed the jib. The wind was blowing about 5 knots, and I could feel the fabric begin to take in the air and redirect it into useful energy, which pushed us along. It was interesting to see how the Catalina cut easily through the water just as it was designed to do, and I could have sworn that our ghost ship was happy to be out there on the bay instead of sitting idle at the dock.

Over the next hour and a half, I learned quite a bit. How to ‘come about’. How to run with the wind versus ‘reaching’. How to pull the jib across the boat to go ‘wing on wing’… which looked really cool, from my perspective, but blocked almost all of our forward view. There weren’t any other boats nearby; we probably would have just sailed right through them, anyway, so I suppose lack of vision wasn’t really a concern. I learned to keep an eye on the wind direction indicator atop of the mast, and to watch the water and even the birds for changes in the atmosphere so that we could take advantage of shifts in the breeze. It was a glorious morning, and it occurred to me that I seemed to be learning things more quickly than I did in my old life.

Gid would only have to explain concepts to me once, and I pretty much instantly grasped them. Terminology that was unfamiliar made its way into my vocabulary and settled in like old friends amongst all of the other words normally at my disposal. At times, it seemed I was reading his mind, understanding what it was I should do with the lines and the wheel and the wind without really having to be told. A point or a nod conveyed reams of meaning, and soon we were working together like a well-oiled machine.

I began to understand the magic that is sailing, and why it has captured Man’s imagination for millennia. I felt something of a kinship with all of those who had ever stood on a deck and been surrounded by water and wind and freedom. The liquid below us and the air above us were alive, and even though I knew they could become savage beasts, that day they were more akin to domesticated pets, happy to play and give us support, momentum and passage. Looking at the sky and the sun and the water, I realized what a limited life I had led. So much wasted time not appreciating the glories of all that is around each and every one of us. So many possibilities unfulfilled. So many frames of reference not sampled. I found it ironic that I was only just learning to live while being in a coma.

To sleep; perchance to dream…

__________

We anchored exactly in the spot where I was in my dream. I went down below to grab us a couple of beers… a Fat Tire for me, and a
Corona
with lime for Giddeon. I turned on the radio and dialed it to 97.3, a country station. Taylor Swift sang about an old boyfriend in the song ‘
Tim McGraw’
. I came back on deck and handed Gid his beer.

“Thanks,” he said. I sat down across from him and took a sip of my brew. Seagulls flew overhead, and a few clouds accented the sky. It was surprisingly warm for early Spring. “I told you it wasn’t that hard to learn. You’re almost an old salt, now.” Giddeon grinned after delivering his complement and tipped back his
Corona
.

“I can’t believe I’ve had this boat for over two years and never took it out… afraid I didn’t know what I was doing, I guess.”

“Tons of videos on the web where you can learn all about it,” said my sailing instructor. “Plus, the marina has a list of captains that really don’t charge that much per hour.”

“I know… I know. I was really bad about getting off of my butt, back then,” I admitted.

“Fear and laziness are formidable companions, my friend. Those two things, together, kill more dreams than everything else, combined.” He took another sip of beer.

“You’re sounding more and more like a philosopher every day,” I observed. “I promise, though, if I ever make it back, there’ll be less T.V. and less web surfing. Just pick me out a stock every now and then.”

Gid grinned. “You don’t need me to make money… just ‘stock’ up on dreams and actively pursue them. The money will sort itself out. You can’t just live in your head.”

“You seem to do fine.”

“Touche’… I don’t really have a choice. You do.”

“At the moment, I don’t.” Silence fell between us for a few seconds. Not wanting to bring the day down, I cast my eyes out over the water and commented, “But, I’ve gotta say… this ain’t bad… this ain’t bad at all.”

“Oh, yes. Not bad at all.” Giddeon paused for a few moments, and then, carried on. “But, over ‘there’, you can interact. You can share… you can shine.” He sounded almost reverent, which was out of character for him. “You can shoot for the stars, and it really means something… because gravity exists. You can live your life free to fail… you know? For, without failure, there’s no success.”

He had that faraway look in his eyes that he got every so often, and was quiet for a moment or two before he continued,

“Over here, everything’s real, so nothing’s real. Imagination’s pale without something solid on the flip side. Don’t forget that. If you get the chance to live, again, take it.”

I nodded. “I will.”

Giddeon was quiet, again, for a small interlude, and then said, “I think Jack London summed it up best:

‘
I would rather be ashes than dust!

I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze

Than it should be stifled by dry-rot

I would rather be a superb meteor,

Every atom of me in magnificent glow,

Than a sleepy and permanent planet.

The function of man is to live, not to exist.

I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.

I shall use my time.
’”

“Wow,” I said and took in some Fat Tire. “That’s pretty good. I never heard that.”

“It was in the foreword of one of those ‘
White Fang
’ books you read. I thought the poem was awesome, even when I was twelve. Anyway, you get more out of your life if you get out more in your life… plus, visitors will have a whole lot more fun than hanging out with a dullard.” He took another swallow of his Mexican beverage.

“I’ve always been kind of a loner.”

“Oh, I don’t mean actual visitors in the flesh.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, after propping my feet up and looking out over the water.

“I mean the ones in your head.”

“Not following you…”

He scrunched up his lips and brow, as if thinking. I had come to learn that when I saw him doing that, something of import was coming soon.

“Okay… let’s see,” he said. “You know how we’ve been sampling realities… how in all of the parallel universes there are infinite probabilities?”

“Yeah…”

“The same is true of the future… and, the past. Infinite probabilities, infinite timelines.”

“Makes sense,” I responded as the wind gently rocked our boat.

Gid
nodded. “Yep, it does. So, when you want to put yourself into another frame of reference ‘over there’ (air quotes, again, even with the beer in his hand) in our time, what’s the best way to do it?”

I thought for a moment.

“A cheap bottle of tequila?”

Giddeon almost blew
Corona
out of his nose as he was taking a swallow. “Good one! No… I mean something more proper… think date night, but, it’ll be double the price, then.”

“A movie?”

“Correctamundo. A movie. However, what do you think is better… real life, or a movie?”

I considered for a moment. “Real life? As long as it’s a good one.”

“Okay. Stay with me, now… if there are infinite futures, and technology continues to advance in billions of those, what do you think the probability is that in one or more of those realities they’ll be able to interface one brain with another? Interface them so that one person can directly experience what the other person is experiencing?”

“Hmmm… 100 percent, I suppose.”

“All right… and, if we’ve colonized other star systems and galaxies, what will our population be in this ever expanding cosmos compared to what we have, now, on this one planet?”

“Lots and lots more, obviously.”

“Yep, LOTS more. Now… we’ve already established that time and distance are illusions, so time travel shouldn’t pose much of a problem in those highly advanced futures. Do you agree?”

I was beginning to see where he was going with all of this.

“Okay…”

“So,” Gid continued, “if you’re from the future, would you rather go to a movie about your distant ancestors on planet Earth, or would you rather see it through their actual eyes?” He had turned his blue eyes towards me as he spoke, as if to make a point.

I began to balk. “Oh, come on… are you serious? Are you telling me that people from the future are linking with our brains and using them as some sort of virtual reality movie theaters?”

He grinned and tipped back his drink. “Quite possible. As a matter of fact, almost guaranteed.”

“That’s ridiculous… there’s no proof that anything like that is happening.”

“In this frame of reference. I suspect there are rules about interference… the possibility of altering timelines and all.”

I shook my head vigorously back and forth. “I’m not on board with this one… it’s too crazy!”

Giddeon finished his beer and tossed it overboard. It disappeared before hitting the water. “You’re arguing with your subconscious aboard a Flying Dutchman about what is and is not possible. Don’t you find that a bit ironic?”

“The Flying Dutchman had dead people on board… I’m in a coma.”

Another beer appeared in his hand with a lime slice already pushed into the neck. He took a slow swig and smiled. “Details.”

“Anyway,” I continued, “I don’t have to worry about it… who would want to visit someone in a coma?”

Giddeon smiled. “You’d be surprised. You’d be surprised.”

His gaze turned towards the shore.

I followed his eyes. There on the bank, looking out into the water was a familiar figure. She had on khaki shorts and a blue halter top; a bag was slung over her shoulder and a camera was in her hands. She turned back towards the clubhouse and took a picture.

Melody.