The Sea of Loneliness

By Kieran Martin

The seas teem with danger; any fool can tell you that. Someone with a little learning might be more specific. One uncle told me about waters so deep that divers die of nostalgia. There are kraken: huge monsters with bodies of aliens and hearts of chaos. There are spots where things disappear and others where storms rise like panic attacks, smashing hearts into eyes and even exchanging arms and legs till everyone aboard understands how hastily assembled we are. Self-help gurus know nothing of the ocean.

Few speak of the most dangerous place, so quiet while I tell you. In the Pacific, where tuna are at their boldest, the very young and the very old pass each other going to and from the fresh waters of Aotearoa. Tuna, by the way, is the Māori name for ‘eel’, as well as type of fish. We’re talking about the eel here. We figure the Sea of Loneliness is in that part of the ocean because tunas can be seen there.

One morning the crew awakes and everyone is alone. Jacko in the crow’s nest, Lippy on the deck. Everyone else down under, but no one with company. First, it was curious, then it was fun, then it felt scary, and after that brave. But a few days in, it felt like only one thing. Lonely.

Had the crew been warned about the Sea of Loneliness? I can’t really say. Jacko wouldn’t pay attention, Lippy would forget, Grandma might talk about another sea when she was young, but that would all be make-believe. Even if you knew, as the days dragged on, you’d probably replace it with your own story to pass the time.

The tuna though of all the creatures in the ocean, they were the ones who weren’t affected. You knew before long. You see one cod, and one gull, but thousands of tunas. All comfort and hope depended on them. By seeing their number, you could start to believe the others were still there. You knew that there was a chance for this to end.

They are so, so silent. There’s a laconic dryness to their manner as if they swim without touching water. They didn’t need to speak: to be in their presence is to discover that you don’t really understand time. Whoever looked into the water would know. The others are still there. They’re thinking about you too.

I’m not saying there weren’t some desperate days. And every day was hard. Our little crew made it through. The next day they were fighting over coffee beans and lightning. Hoo-boy, we like to keep moving. And we, who made it across that body of water, when we stop and mop a floor very, very slowly, we can see those tuna again and thank them for never leaving us.

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Kieran Martin wrote a couple of short pieces 14 years ago when living in a very small town. He also writes lyrics, essays and code. His kids taught him how to narrate; one of the many gifts they came to him with.

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