The Struggle of Returning to Civilisation

My first few weeks back in civilisation were a strange blur. Unbeknown to me, the adrenalin was still pumping from the journey, everything was new and exciting again, and it would take some time before the full repercussions of my return would be felt. For a short while there I was revelling in my situation and soaking up the pleasures of the material world. But, as I knew would happen, it soon wore off; the days melted away, the phone stopped ringing, and things that were, for so long, extreme pleasures that I could only dream of, became everyday needs. Life was returning to normal and I was struggling to cope.

Do we not, in this modern age, strive to live ‘in the moment’, to take each and every minute of the day as is comes, to not wallow in the past, or fancy the future, but to follow the philosophy of living in the present? Thoreau, writing in the 1850’s, revealed he was “anxious to improve the nick of time…to stand on the meeting of two eternities, the past and future, which is precisely the present moment; to toe that line.” 

Unfortunately, I’ve never been very good at toeing that line. Instead, I spend much of my time luxuriating in the past and dreaming of the future, while the present pleasantly slips by. For months on end at sea I would be stimulated by either extremity, this was my greatest strength. The past was relived constantly, refined and romanticized, distilled to its purest and most intoxicating form. From this concoction I would sip pleasantly, letting the day slip by while the highlights of my life ran as a film in my mind.

And for a change, I would swing the other way, leave the past behind, overtake the present, and sojourn in the future. Hours on end would melt away while thinking of what the future held, the adventures on land and sea yet to come. No matter how hard things were, I knew I could look forward to and dream of, better times ahead. With so much certainty I planned my future, how it would look and feel down to the minutest detail, and what a pleasure that was.

This is a craft I have honed over my childhood. From my early teenage years I always had a spare arrow in my quiver, the Pacific Ocean. No matter how hard things were, I could always steal away to the future, to the time when I would be rowing the Pacific, alone and unreliant, freed from the ills of the world around me.

One and a half years ago I pulled back the bowstring and shot my finest arrow. Oh my, how it soared, further than the rest, ever higher, with a feeling that that it may never come down, that perhaps the laws of gravity didn’t apply to this arrow, that my whole existence could be pinned to this one shot that seemed never to waver. It was absolute. 

At fourteen years of age, unlike my contemporaries, I knew exactly how my next ten years would look, and I made sure it happened. I missed out on the little crises of young adulthood, of approaching the unknown. I was always so surefooted, the unbridled ambition was there, along with the dedication, anything was possible. Dreams do come true.

Realistically, all good things must come to an end, the arrow must fall to the ground. What I’m left with now is an empty quiver. I look out into the world and see no answers. After a long and treacherous journey, I find myself standing before a great abyss, my toes are curled over the edge of a great unknown. For the first time in my life, I know not what the future holds. The abyss is finite, I realise that, but there is no clear path, nothing materialises, just brief apparitions of light. And how can one see clearly when surrounded by two and a half million people? Going from a world that consisted of just one, for so long, to a bustling metropolis with a concrete fetish.

I sit outside, al fresco, watching the cars speed by as I eat my dinner and meditate on my surroundings. A black crow swoops and dives amongst the traffic, picking its moments to feast on some unidentifiable roadkill, probably a possum, maybe a large rat. What mean and sneaking lives these city crows live, feasting on the remains of the less fortunate while eking out their own tepid existence.

After dinner I wandered on home, feeling happy that I had a new friend in the crow. Perhaps he too has seen the best of his world, has soared high and far, travelled to the ends of his earth, and returned to the big smoke for some crow business. I should have asked.

But I had to keep moving, the sun had set on the last day of 2023, and it was time to get ready for the obligatory annual celebrations. Five tons of fireworks had been loaded onto rafts on the Brisbane River, and a friend’s boat was moored strategically to make the most of the night.

After an evening of drinks and nibbles, small talk, and tales from the high seas with fellow mariners, the night was soon to reach its climax as the year came to an end. Tens of thousands lined the riverbanks and the bridges.

With less than fifteen minutes until the new year was to be heralded in with a spectacular display of pyrotechnics, I felt my phone buzz. I reached my hand into my pocket, pulled out my mobile and read the following message:

“Hello. I have information on Maiwar your boat. Please text me as soon as you see this message.”