The Perfect Storm
While we are busy being busy, life happens. A lot of we do is planned and achieves what we want and expect, but some of it is unplanned and takes us to random and unexpected places. Whether planned or unplanned, circumstances arise, choices are made and paths cross. And sometimes, on that rare occasion, serendipity will dip its head and give us a wink. Then, life really happens; circumstances are so extraordinary, alignments so improbable and destinations so unexpected that reason decrees that it cannot happen, that one in a million shot, the perfect storm.
Fundamentally, that is what life is. Some of it is planned, some of it is unplanned, and occasionally we are lashed by the perfect storm. I make this observation, not after extensive study or by way of daring adventure, but simply by having lived, and although not earth-shattering or particularly insightful, I believe it to be sound.
Now that you know me a little, not a lot but enough to be getting on with, enough to liken me to a stranger on a bus with whom you have made eye contact and exchanged a tentative smile, I would like to tell you a story; a story that is only there for the telling because serendipity dipped its head and gave a wink.
As is often the case when a story is worthy of being told, the starting point is not always remarkable or noteworthy, leaving one unprepared and somewhat taken aback at what follows; akin to a lazy stroll along a well-used and familiar path that leads you gently into the forest, then gets you lost as its getting dark.
This story begins with Sebastian, a man who is not sure just how big a social gaffe it is to wear knee-high socks under a pair of long trousers. He has given it some thought but has never discussed it with anyone. He likes long socks and cannot abide those socks that reach just above your ankles, and those invisible socks that stay hidden inside your shoes are completely beyond him.
To compensate for the strongly suspected knee-high socks faux-pas Sebastian is always very well presented. He never leaves home without a vanity-free once-over in the full-length mirror attached to his wardrobe door. It imparts to him a sense of preparedness and puts him at ease. Sebastian is not a man who readily feels at ease, unless he is at home mounting little sailing ships into glass bottles or sorting through or adding to his collection of snuff-tins.
People generally make Sebastian uneasy, particularly those people who stride through life with undeniable purpose and a never-ending supply of jollity. He has the uneasy feeling that they are hiding something, that, like magicians, they are constantly drawing your attention away from what is really happening. He believes that the willingness to accept that you can and will make mistakes, to embrace a degree of uncertainty that disarms arrogance and invites humility is the true measure of a man.
It would be easy to picture Sebastian as a small dowdy little man, somewhat wimpish. He is not. He is a tall man who is engaging to look at, with a lean and muscular physique. When interacting with other people Sebastian elicits within them feather-light feelings of perplexity, of wanting more, creating a sense of unfulfilled expectation, accompanied by a twinge of guilt that there could perhaps have been a little more effort on their part. One could surmise that Sebastian’s inner workings have been housed in the wrong body.
When chancing upon Sebastian serendipity must have experienced these same puzzling emotions, and in response had dipped its head and given a wink, simply because it could and had felt goaded into a meaningful reaction.
The encounter between Sebastian and serendipity took place in a lift with only one other occupant; an attractive young woman on her way up to the twentieth floor to visit her sister, who had recently interned in a large legal firm. Sebastian was on his way up to the sixteenth floor for his annual dental check-up, which had been brought forward by three days due to a cancellation. By the twelfth floor all other occupants had disembarked, going about their high-rise business, and no-one new boarded.
So began the first manoeuvre of the perfect storm.
Under normal circumstances Sebastian and this attractive young woman would not have engaged, but there was a mechanical failure and the lift stopped between floors. They were stuck in the lift for just over two hours. During their time stuck in the lift they disclosed a lot to each other, far more than each probably intended. Although there was no romantic connection, there was an honest and meaningful exchange. Sebastian had felt at ease in her presence and, circumstances aside, had enjoyed his time spent stuck in the lift.
The perfect storm was gaining momentum and building nicely.
A week later Sebastian was reading the newspaper and saw a photograph of the young woman; she had been raped and murdered and her body dumped in a wooded area just outside of town. The impact on Sebastian was astonishing. He had only known this woman for a few hours, but the rage that coursed through him was life-altering.
The perfect storm, now powerful and majestic, swept Sebastian away, firmly held within its howling melee.
He knew without doubt or conscious thought, at a deep visceral level, that he would find and kill whoever had done this terrible thing. In that searing flash of primal insight Sebastian became driven by a crystal clear certainty, acknowledging that there was only one acceptable course of action, an action from which he would be neither deterred nor dissuaded.
Although fuelled by the awesome power of the perfect storm, and piloted by an unwavering conviction, Sebastian did not transform into a wild-eyed zealot, pulsing and humming with fevered and frenetic energy, inflated by the notion of a higher calling. He calmly took ownership of what the fates had decreed, and committed to his task with quiet resolve and the serenity of unquestioned acceptance. He was completely at peace with what he knew he had to do.
Sebastian was experiencing the full and unrelenting power of the perfect storm. Serendipity had dipped its head, given a wink and moved on, forging a previously unthinkable bond, now unbreakable, between a good man and a monster. Life was now really happening.
For Sebastian, life as he had known it no longer existed. He could feel the change, and knew that at a fundamental level something had shifted, was no longer as it was and could not be put back.
He went outside and sat on the bench under the old fig tree that provided shade during the day and threw shadows against his bedroom window at night. He took with him his old flask filled with freshly made tea, and sat drinking the hot, sweet liquid from the metal cup that screwed onto the top. The cup was slightly dented, had no handle and the three evenly spaced orange circles that ran around the centre were faded and missing in places. He held it loosely within the circle of both hands, his fore-arms resting along his thighs. Sitting under the tree, leaning forward and looking down at the grass between his feet, he felt something comfortable and familiar quietly leaving. The man that had spent a pleasant interlude trapped inside a lift would never be the same. With a quick, decisive flick of his wrist he tossed the last few drops of tea onto the grass, screwed the cup back onto the flask and went inside.
Having rinsed the flask and cup and placed them on the draining-board, Sebastian went into the dining-room and picked up the newspaper, folded it so that her picture was visible, propped it up against the big fruit bowl that stood in the middle of the dining-room table and sat down, looking at her picture but not seeing it. He sat with his legs outstretched, leaning back in the chair with his hands laced across his stomach.
Sitting there Sebastian experienced the strangest sensation. He became aware that the way he moved, the way he held himself, the way he did things, the very air itself, was different. Not alarmingly so, but definitely different. He reached up and gently pressed the tips of fingers into his cheek; the same but not.
He was unsettled by a restlessness that churned slowly behind his navel and had perplexing thoughts lazily gambolling about inside his head. He went to his work-bench and looked down at the latest sailing ship, partially assembled, that he was going to mount in the bottle that he had found in a jam-packed and pleasantly chaotic second-hand shop. The bottle was the perfect shape and size and had a slight blue tint, which would enhance the feeling of movement when the little ship with its white sails and ropey rigging was mounted, straining at full mast within its glass confines.
He placed his palms flat against the surface of the work-bench, leant forward and closed his eyes. There was a stillness about him that did not convey rest, but rather the slow gathering of energy and purpose for a task at hand. He opened his eyes and slowly straightened. Taking a deep breath he fetched a table-cloth from the linen cupboard and spread it over the work-bench, completely covering the little ship, the blue bottle and all the tools and bits and bobs that lay with such familiarity across its surface. The man with the patience and the delicate touch that sat for hours at this table, content and at peace, was going to be away for a while.
He looked down at the table-cloth and pictured himself removing it, picking up his tools and settling into the chair that countless hours had moulded into comfortable familiarity, knowing that when he did he would be fundamentally tweaked but in essence unaltered, as an adult is when returning to their high school bedroom in their parent’s home; the same but not.
Straightening his shoulders he went into the hallway and put on his coat and an old peaked cap and let himself out. For the first time that he could remember he did not feel the need give himself a quick once-over in the full-length mirror before leaving. His journey into the unknown had begun, decreed by serendipity and fuelled by the perfect storm.
He was going to make it right, he was going to do whatever it took, so that when he thought about her or looked at her photograph, he would know that she approved of what he had done, and was at peace, resting easy. He did not know how long it would take him, but he was okay with that. He was experiencing an exhilarating sense of purpose that required neither scrutiny nor explanation, and once this task was behind him he would not think about it again, ever.
He will once again sit at his work-bench, the latest sailing ship at full mast in its glass bottle, his collection of snuff-tins close to hand; all back as it should be, the blip that had pinged on his radar a distant echo. The only reminder a photograph cut from a newspaper that lies neatly folded in his oldest snuff tin.
The perfect storm will pass but its power will never be forgotten. Its passing will leave its mark, forever there but not always seen or perceived by others. Sebastian’s journey will continue, its purpose and destination unchanged, but he will be accompanied by two silent companions, forever at his side, matching him step for step and stride for stride. He will dream and he will laugh, he will make choices and he will have doubts, he will sleep and he will awake. His life will go on; the same but not.
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