When he opens his eyes, everything has changed. His world is gone, and he's standing on the deck of a boat. The sky is blue and nearly cloudless, and he can feel the warmth of the sun on the back of his neck. He reaches out to rest a hand on the rail and feels an effortless strength course through the limb. He smiles then, knowing without looking that his skin is lightly freckled, not spotted by age the way it was mere moments ago, his body muscled and tight the way it has not been for many years. (Years which already begin to fade, almost as though he has been dreaming and is now awake.)
The water laps softly at the sides of his ship, and he closes his eyes, thinking back for a moment – only a moment - on his life of dreams. When he opens them again, there is a shoreline in view. He walks to the prow of the ship, leaning out over the rail. Soon, he can make out a field, patches yellow and white flowers dotting the grass, a grove of trees behind. And sloping down to meet the water, a sandy beach, with a woman on it, her blonde hair tousled by the breeze. She raises a hand in greeting, and he thinks he can see her grin, even from this distance.
A part of him, the part to which the concept of time still holds meaning, is brought to its knees by the sight of her. But the intervening years feel so meaningless and this reunion so inevitable now that he simply raises a hand and grins in return.
Finally his ship nears the shore, and he swings down from its rail into the shallow water, splashing up the beach to where she stands. Their eyes meet and hold for a moment before she punches him – gently, for her - in the shoulder.
"Took you long enough," she says.
He smiles, then glances toward the empty field.
"Is it just you?" he asks, but if there is disappointment in his voice, she cannot hear it.
"Only because I was the only one willing to stand around all day waiting for your slow ass." She grins again. "Come on, everybody's waiting."
She slips her hand into his, and together, they turn and walk slowly up the beach, the waves washing their footprints away behind them.
Crossing the Bar
Sunset and evening star, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Twilight and evening bell, For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
- Alfred Lord Tennyson
