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If they ask me to write about my ideal vacation... By: Chie Theresa Fujioka on 5/21/2002; 10:25 PM The breeze floated lazily across the deck, carrying the thick sweet taste of morning accented by salt. Standing towards the bow, hugging my dry, sun-warmed towel about my shoulders, I stared into the blue-gray horizon. The ship gently rocked under the gentle pressure of the Florida sun. Together we floated out towards the edge of the world. Busy below, divers scurried about gathering plastic of all shapes. Fins, flippers, masks, goggles, snorkels, swimsuits overflowed from their arms, falling along the walkway, unheeded in the rush. In my hand, I carried my matching hot pink fins and mask with pride, the black plastic lining baking my fingers upon contact. We waited patiently for the hollow chug of the boat to cease, for the underwater tour to begin. I turned back towards the ship edge. The sun hung like a golden apple in the sky, shimmering atop the water’s surface. And even as I watched, the reflection began to ripple and shimmer, as if from the disturbance of some ancient monster of lore, casting beams of light painfully into my eye. I turned away, shielding my face with my hand, and carefully squinting back. Nothing. The water danced innocently before me, the wind gently rode upon my shoulders. I relaxed. The horizon was smooth, untouched by the hand of the wind. My head jerked back, pulled by force and the waves forcefully slapped the helm of the boat, as if to remind me that I was at its mercy. The fickle wind giggled away in rebellion, urging the waves to deeper troughs and higher crests. The knuckles of my hand turned the color of cast away seashells with the threat, my hand grasping the oxidized silver bar before me. The sky began to cast clouds down upon me, the sky turned and hid its one eye as I had before. The once innocent, now disillusioned child of the sea began to roar with the fury of a tantrum only nature can sustain. The salty air now stunk with the stench of the passengers wretching their contents overboard. The plastic pieces were now thrown about the deck, no longer pleasant scattered as before. The line leading to the lavatory swayed and tumbled, thrown by a mighty hand, even as they fiercely grasped the metal bars protecting them. I rested my head upon the cold steel in fear, the cool of the metal seemed my only protection from the battle my life so precariously balanced on. I heard my father’s voice ripped away by the wind, telling me to watch the horizon. And I watched, as if by watching I could save, although the horizon swung across my vision violently. But no parent but God himself could anticipate the nature of nature. Unworthy to be playthings, we were soon dropped and forgotten, our path once again pleasant. Or so to speak. The sudden lack of motion now seemed more violent than its beginnings, and I staggered around. The world once again flooded itself with light, the sleeping earth regained her composure, and the silk sheets of water were no longer rumpled. My family gathered around a white plastic chair and took a picture. It looks like the ideal vacation.
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