One moonlit night, after an exhausting day at work, I made my way to my go-to relaxation spot: our family hammock by the seashore. Getting into it usually took a few minutes. You see, the whole setup was so impractical that it would make an engineer queasy on a fine day. I first had to climb the ladder, which leaned against one of the coconut trees supporting the hammock. Once I reached the final rung, I had to position myself: hips first, hands gripping the sides, then a gentle push to make my way in.
But the struggle was well worth it. From that position, I could see everything that moved and everything that stayed still. I could see the clouds form and merge. I could see the waves gather in the distance and collapse on the sandy shore. If I really, really paid attention, I could see the night slowly change to day, the moon slowly moving from the east to the west.
I got into the hammock, adjusting myself with minimal movement. With a single long sigh, all the exhaustion I felt during the day dissipated into the chill night. I plugged in my earphones and drifted into sleep.
I woke up in the dead of night; the moonlight caressed my face. It felt like it had worked its magic while I was sleeping, for I was cleansed of all exhaustion. My muscles stretched with ease; my bones no longer made a clicking sound when I turned from one corner to another. I was altogether rejuvenated.
Now, what happened next changed some things in my life.
Suddenly, I saw the waves hurry from a singular point on the distant horizon. The moon disappeared, going out like a weak tubelight, only to appear again. Everything was cold. Cold. My hammock started swinging back and forth, fast and slow. The once gentle breeze had now turned into a tempest. I wanted to jump out and run as fast as I could before the tempest could get to me. However, I simply couldn’t move. I was stuck like I had become part of the coconut trees.
I had no clue what was happening in that moment. Before I started putting all my senses to work to figure out this mysterious weather anomaly, the swing (formerly my beloved hammock, my sanctuary) flung me into the air, and that is when I started floating with the moon.
All the heat in the world hid in the crevices then. The cold spread out like a wildfire. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw my resting spot. Before me was an endless sea. I lay suspended.
I felt a sudden urge to cry, without knowing why (it wasn’t fear, I assure you). I wept and saw my tears fall to the sea below. Like rain. Like rain, my tears fell.
I floated with the moon for hours. I settled in a familiar rhythm. I felt calm. I saw my house faint in the night, my sister talking to my dog. He spent his nights feeling the wind on his nose, the sound of crashing waves he distinguished easily from clashing utensils, when my mother readied his dinner. Today, however, the dinner must wait a little longer. He wouldn’t eat without me.
To the west, I drifted, slowly, moment by moment, stuck in a lunar current; I floated in the open sky with my back to the moon.
I saw many things in the sea. I saw a large container ship hurrying to its destination, far in the east. I saw small fishing boats waiting for their final catch. A lonely lighthouse stood on a lonely rock, stranded in the sea. I could see anything I wished, but what I desired the most was to be put to sleep in my hammock by the seashore.
To my absolute delight, I woke up to the sound of my dog barking; he was calling me. He was hungry.
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