The Woman On The Boat

On a kayak-like boat floating on a still water, probably a sea, was a woman in bank-teller uniform. She paddled from both sides of the boat using rubber slippers. Slowly the boat moved eastward. I’m assuming it was to the east she was headed because behind her was half the setting sun. I was facing the sun. I was watching all these behind the lens. The other half of the sun was already under water. The still unset fraction of the yellow-orange sun was so large that it dwarfed the silhouette of the woman on the boat. I zoomed in the camera to see who the woman was. I aimed at her face. She looked like a relative – could be my aunt - but I was not sure. She looked scared. Mud-colored water started to fill the boat though the countless perfect-circle punctures adorning all sides of the boat. The boat sank slowly. At this point she stopped to paddle. She adjusted her feet: from yoga position she shifted to the kneeling position. Eyes closed, she prayed silently. Behind her, half the sun appeared to set at the same rate as the boat sank. That was an eerie sight. As soon as the sea completely devoured the sun, the water in the sea drained at once, like water draining from an unplugged bath tub. The draining left the woman on the now dry sand – the dry sand which, a while ago, was under water. The woman still assumed the praying position. She slowly bowed her head. The boat was nowhere. Was it still there? It was already dark. A rooster crowed. I woke up.

{April 16, 2009}