You see, I was on the top deck of an old, wood, full sail kind of pirate ship. Just like the kind of boats one would find in Pirates of the Caribbean. Where the boat is headed, or why I was on this kind of boat, is of no consequence. What does matter is my behavior on the boat. Maybe it would help lessen your thoughts of me as some kind of psychopath if I preface this dream with the fact that this was the night of May 3rd, 2004 – the night before I had to wake up early in the morning and go to a title company and sign ten billion forms in order to confirm that I wanted to buy a house, followed by Lisa and I going to the bank, withdrawing (what was the exact number?) everything, and then bringing it all back to the same title company I spent my morning signing and initialing and signing and initialing. That said. That level of stress already planted on my mind prior to my going to sleep, here’s my messed up dream. I was on an old mast and sail kind of ship, planks and poop-decks and I’m sure there was a parrot somewhere. I was able to move about the ship, just like everyone else on the ship, but when I was on the top deck, in the open air and exposed to the sunlight, I was tremendously strong. That water about us was clear, crystal clear, just like you’ve seen in movies and commercials. Amazing. And in the water were sharks. Not many sharks, and not nearly enough to be hunting in packs. As a matter of fact they weren’t circling the ship or anything of the sort. We were just passing through their territory, and every so often one shark, alone, would swim along side the boat as if to investigate what we were, and then the shark would swim off. What I started doing was grabbing whatever sailor or pirate or passenger that was within arm’s reach, lift him over my head, and the stand near the edge of the boat. I spoke to the person in my hands, and explained that I was going to throw him overboard. He’d fight and struggle of course, but all it did was to tire him out as nobody was able to break free of my grip. It was when the person in my hands, the doomed victim, began to beg and plead for his life. Not until he started turning faithful and began praying and asking forgiveness did I look over the water into the clear, blue, crystal waters of the Caribbean and throw him in. Whether the person I threw in was finally released of his mortal coil by shark or drowning I do not know. What I do know is that I, uncontrollably, simply grabbed the next person I could reach, hoisted him over my head, and waited for the crying begging and praying and asking for forgiveness before I threw him in. Over and over. I’d grab someone. I’d lift him high over my head. I’d wait for him to stop squirming. Once the begging began, once the apologies for all the wrongs he did in his life was underway, I threw him over. The chilling part of the dream was the realism. I kind of knew, in the back of my mind, that this was a dream. But I think that somehow, someway, my conscious longing for returning to the Caribbean seeped down deep into my subconscious, where my dreams are manufactured, and so with every person I threw into the water, the more real the dream became. Why? I became fascinated with splashes. I remembered then during my dream, as I can picture now in my mind, the beautiful way the water in the Caribbean breaks when splashing against a boat or when something dove in and out of it. And that’s what my addiction in my dream became. Pretty soon there were no more people on the top deck of the boat with me. I guess dream people eventually smarten up. But that didn’t stop me. I needed to see that water, and I needed to see splashes in that water. I wasn’t about to throw myself in, I remember thinking, because even though that would let me see a lovely splash – it would be the last splash I would see. I ended up going below deck, where I was still pretty strong but not as strong as I was upstairs. I began dragging people, against their will, suffering numerous cuts and bruises as I did so, up to the top deck. Once to the top again, my strength returned and I lifted them up, and the whole routine began again. When I woke up the next morning and this dream was over, I was in a cold sweat. It was a severely hot night the night I dreamt this, so maybe that was an explanation – but I doubt it. The reality of the dream at the very end was so intense it was a little ‘too real’ – more real than my sitting here writing this is real. It’s odd, it’s a dream, so you’ll just have to accept it. Anyway, if you’re on a pirate ship with me in the middle of the Caribbean – stand clear. |
