The Ship of Dreams

I memorized the lives of everyone aboard. Felt the weight of their existence and footprints from the moment they stepped off the plank. Followed them as they discovered their rooms, gathered among strangers for dinners, and felt as they gripped the rails, leaning over the side to catch sea mist on their face. I overheard intimate conversations of spoken dreams and repentant pasts.

Going to America, to New York, had always been my destiny. It was the destination that mattered to everyone, but for me, it was the journey. Mine began long before we sailed off. Beginning back in Belfast, and over the course of two years and careful, meticulous, constructed planning, I made my way to Southampton. Leaving the dock on the tenth of April crowds of friends, family and very likely strangers, waved us off goodbye. Most held onto scarves blowing in the wind. Some, onto teary-eyed children. While others just scanned the faces of people flocking to the side to yell unintelligible things at the people who stayed behind. I felt sympathy for them, those stuck back on the dock. They wouldn’t be heading to a new land, or towards promise, to adventure and streets paved in gold. I had no idea that they were the lucky ones. The ones not headed toward an icy grave.

For the next four days, I compared the various classes that lived between the Bridge Deck and the G Deck. Their accents and smells. Tried to understand the circumstances that brought each person to their personal standing in life. I learned some people are more closed off and reserved than others. Although, some just take a bit more brandy to become the loquacious type. The only thing that became obvious was the richer you were, the more clothes you seemed to need to put on. But above all, my favorite thing to observe was the dancing. It was because of the music. The way it could match the rocking of the sea, or the way the waves slapped against the side matched the beat.

The majority of people were sleeping when we hit the iceberg. The ones who weren’t, were getting ready for the next day. Or working at their stations and posts. Behind closed doors, tossing and turning, making plans, making love. The majority were unaware as it happened. I, however, immediately felt the impact. It wasn’t an instant panic. In fact, many resigned themselves to their fate as soon as they heard. For others it took quick math. Looking at the amount of boats and people aboard and recognizing their social standing. Death eventually became an even playing field but that was still hours away yet.

As more water started to rush in, I began to watch Captain Edward Smith more closely. He was known for keeping a stiff upper lip but having watched him in the past few days, I could see the tension seeping into his eyes, his brow becoming more furrowed. Then the music started. Slow, but surprisingly steady considering the amount of water rushing in that was changing the ability to stand up straight. Row boats filled with people started making their way into the Atlantic. Lit up by the lights that were soon to be extinguished. Arguments broke out as the clock started to run out.

In the final minutes, I broke in two. Broke under the weight of being upright, under the weight of people clinging to me. I tried to block out the screaming. Block out the sounds of people splashing in the freezing water but the only thing that worked was my own existence, so heavy, pulling me under the crushing weight of the ocean. Finally closing out all the noise, pleas, and terror. Finally, silence. Shattered across the Ocean floor, scattered alongside the people who trusted me to bring them safely to their dreams.