SAILING AWAY WITH OCTAVIO PAZ

I look at the open space - big sky and endless sea - and it prompts me even more to make myself smaller than I am. The scattered islands and assembled yachts are a pleasant balance to the scope, but I'd rather attend to the gap-fillers of our perception: there's the white foam of the wave, the solitary pelican, the tiny crab in the sand rushing towards the safety of a shell. A method of conceit: Am I to them as they are to me?

Sailing is cool. Anything that harnesses the utility of nature without disruption is cool. Nature, at this moment, is the true wind harnessed by the rig that propels the hull which, together with the lateral resistance of keel, pushes the boat forward. The wind is a little strong, though, and the boat heels way too much for my comfort. The captain looks at me and laughs. He knows the color of fear as I cling to the railings and leave my fate to the lifevest. "We're not going to tilt over", he assures, reading my mind, knowing my issues. "This boat's pretty stable, with a very deep keel and a very low center of gravity." Hell we should not flip-over. Out here in the open sea, I won't swim good, even with floater.

The closer we get to the island, the lesser we have a need for the wind. Wherefore the masts are pulled down and the engine turned on, keeping the boat as settled as the sea. I breathe my usual breathe and the captain sees back the color of my courage. I go down one level from the deck and gush at the elegance compressed to the limit of smartness. How did they do this? Geometry? Philosophy? The bed is in the shape of a triangle, following the contours of the bow. The kitchen shelves are collapsible. The walls double as compartments. Wow. Down here, not only do the walls have ears, they have television sets and ironing boards, too.

We drop anchor and I think of poetry. I love poetry even if I'm no poet, and poetic justice convicts me now, in this boat, in reclusion perpetua, and so I am honorably condemned to the loveliness in my hand, the words of my poetic hero, the jewel of Octavio Paz.

Paz's words. The words of Peace. Here's to irony, they revolt. They rise up in arms. They rebel. But sometimes, like the sea, like this boat when the masts are down, they settle down. They soothe, they charm. They are peaceful.

Octavio Paz's words have the sound and quality of the sea. They swoosh, they shoosh, they wash ashore, they wash our soul. His words could have made me cry but for the natural error of my gender. Boys don't cry.

I look around and see a gathering of boats, with a safety of distance that allows for some basking au naturelle. I have my binos in hand and could have snooped for action, for show, for invitation, for ridicule, Hey Tommy, Tommy, Tommmy, but my agenda is for little things like me, so I focus on the wave and see the foam like giant latte, the surface of ale, the crowning glory of bubble bath. Once more I think of Paz, I think of his words, his academia by the sea, his term la unibersidad de obiaje, the university of the waves.

Ahhh, academia. Paz's written words not only speak, they teach, too. They discuss and give exams and hold recitations. But they don't fail. They never do. For some poetic power they always succeed to connect to the heart of our studentry, the studentry of our hearts, as we listen to the wavelength up and down, from the tongue of his pen, the throat of his ink, the diaphragm of his paper, so let us now hush and listen to the serenity of his lecture:

Now I have all I have loved
within my little universe,
the starred order of waves,
the sudden disorder of stones.
Far off, a city in rags
calling me, poor siren,
so that the heart can never, no,
scorn its weight of obligation,
and I with sky and poems
in the light of all I love,
poised here, swithering,
raising the cup of my song.

(from Here, There, Everywhere)