Where I come from, everyone, on their seventeenth birthdays, is sent away to sail unto the horizon. To the sea, the unknown. It has been like this for generations. Every kid knows they’ll have to leave home and sail away to sea. Of course, they are taught how to survive their journey before their seventeenth birthday. Even though it might have scared many of us when we were younger, we grew to accept our fate. “Why, though?” you may be wondering, which you probably are right now. Well, firstly, forgive me for diving straight in. Perhaps I owe you some background information, hm? And also, who am I? You’re probably wondering that as well. I think it’s best if I start over again.
Anyway, where I come from, we are sent to sail out to sea on our seventeenth birthdays. It is part of an ancient tradition passed down over generations. Its origins are rooted in a great tragedy our ancestors have experienced. Many moons ago, a devastating plague almost became the scourge of our people. Many were wiped out, especially the older population. The plague’s firm hand did not seem to be letting its grip loosen from our throats any time soon. So, the small number of remaining people hastily crafted small ships for each survivor to sail away from the lands that they once knew to be their homes. The boats were crafted to accommodate only one person to prevent spreading the plague. After the remaining survivors set sail, our lands withered. Not a single human or living being remains. Many years after the plague’s scourge, the survivors started to come back to their homes, to rebuild. Eventually, our lands flourished with life again. That is how the tradition started. Since then, everyone is sent away, when their time comes, to “find themselves” and not come back until they have. This has been going on uninterrupted for generations. Who’s to decide whether we have accomplished our aim, though? Well, that would be the Oracle’s job. A very old member of our society who has lived longer than anyone else. No one knows how she is able to figure out whether someone has “found themself”. However, what we do know is that you would know if you had found yourself.
My name is… Well, does it really matter? I was sent out to sea years ago, about seven or eight years ago. I have been alone with myself for eight years and I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. Which is what? Myself? Yeah, I suppose. I have begun to feel like this whole thing is pointless. Maybe that's just a “me problem”. Whatever it is, I don't care, I just want to go back home and start to live my life. I mean, I understand that we have to honour the past and go through what our ancestors have or something like that, but I just feel like it is a huge waste of time. Wasting ten years of my life out in the blue. It has been peaceful, I’ll give it that. Maybe a little too peaceful. Definitely too peaceful. On the flip side, this peace has led to a focus on some smaller things, like maintaining my ship, paying attention to my hygiene. As much as I can, at least. With the tools I possess. But those things have not been enough to overcome this intense boredom.
***
Five more years have passed. And I feel like a dried-up husk of something that once felt human. I have lost myself. But wait, we were supposed to find that, right? Must have forgotten! Dead inside. Empty. I haven’t felt anything in years. Stopped taking care of both the ship and myself. Figured that there wasn’t much to live for at this point. I just… can’t find it. How do you even find yourself? I don’t know. I never have. So much for honouring our ancestors who rebuilt our society. I suppose I am one of the lost ones, who the sea swallows before they even make it home.
The ship is a skeleton now. Rusty, fragile, faded… The floorboards creak as I step on them. An unbearable smell of rust, sweat, and tears. The ship groans in pain, even as a gentle wave hits the hull. Does any of this bother me? No. Absolutely not. I am content with the truth. The truth that I will not find myself and that my self is lost forever in the deep sea. Lost in my sea of thoughts, I hear a faint crack. I don’t make much of it. I’ve gotten used to the excessive amount of worrisome noises this ship makes. The crack fades. Or maybe it doesn’t. I stopped listening. I feel a cold touch on my skin. It starts to cover my body. I realise the situation I am in. I do not move. I let the water wrap me up in its cold embrace. I close my eyes as I prepare myself for my inevitable demise.
Just as I was sinking deeper and embracing the darkness, I felt a sudden pull on my arm. It’s soft and warm. A familiar feeling from the past. As I am pulled out of the water, the cold stabs me, sharp as a thousand icy needles. I cough the water out of my lungs and inhale fresh air as if it’s the first breath I have taken in years. As I lie down, a shadow leans over me… My sight is fuzzy, I blink… A face… I look upon the face of my rescuer. My breath catches. My chest burns. Not from drowning, but from something older, buried deeper. Something I thought I’d forgotten. All those years of sorrow have led me to this moment. And suddenly, the years don’t feel wasted. Her gaze demolishes every wall I had built around me. I feel something warm, terrifying, impossible… And yet, unmistakable.