Adrift With Jerry or "Beware the Jabberwock!"

“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.”

 

            I saw, once, a very funny thing. The memory of it, of that ocean crossing, still brings a smile. It was a seal, lolling in the sun, rolling belly up atop a picnic table that was then adrift at sea. Whether this table was there amongst the waves by chance, or there a-purpose (the end result of an adolescent prank, let’s say), well the seal could not tell me. All questions he ignored, as he luxuriated under the warmth of a blue sky. It is a silly story, and rattles in the head.

 

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

 

                A smile, pen a-blur. A seal on a wayward table. The mind gives the pen leave to write of it. There are worse ways to start a tale told whereby isolation and wistful melancholy are the prevailing emotions.  Unlike some, this mental illness is easy to hide. Make sure people always see you laughing, and they don’t think to ask if you are sad.

 

“He took his vorpal sword in hand;

Long time the manxome foe he sought –
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.”

 

            I am here alone, almost. Khayyam, of course, faithful, has come. This solitude is by design. I like it, and do not want for company. “I wish I was going with you,” she had said the day before my leaving. An awkward silence had ensued, the sentiment not having been shared. I need this time. It is for me, and for me alone. Selfish, perhaps, but there is no ‘us’ here, not yet. Only thoughts, memories, no spoken words to another human being in almost a week. The sweetness of this time, the happy ache of being alone.

 

“And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!”

 

            From Ashburton Head, I can see both the near and far places. The dark imposing cliffs of Seven Days Work, rushing broken to the sea. Chimney smoke clinging desperately to the crowns of fir trees in the lull between hills that is Whale Cove. The wind, against which I face, threatens again and again to nab my cap, and hurl it from this high place, to chase the eagle which has since winged away, our footsteps having disturbed this isolated eyrie. I am sorry for that. The bluffs and jagged chasm here is the bird’s home, we are the interlopers.

 

“One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head,
He went galumphing back.”

 

            Later, Whale Cove beach, and its boulders make a fine seat. Feet up on driftwood, back nestled on stone, I watch the dying of the light on Hole-in-the-Wall. It is a long evening, better suited to June than December. Lucky in that, in this slow fall of shadow.

 

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.”

 

            Khayyam laps water noisily from a stream. I watch a group of seals dive offshore, near a herring weir. Eating, perhaps. Perhaps at play. It is a mystery to me, watching these hounds of the sea. But there is no table. No lone seal barking in happiness, sunning its belly, lolling away time in the swell. Thoughts in this solitude.

 

“’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.”

 

            Is this time my table? The Sailor Jerry has a potent kick tonight. The drink and the pen conspire against me. Flow of consciousness has become an inevitability. Do I idle away this time in the sun, barking and lolling alone? I smile to think so. That happy seal is a memory of sunshine, even as the sun dies for another day, even when on a high place, against the wind.