Garda

A sketch

The name Garda originates from the Germanic word warda, meaning "place of observation" or "place of safety”.

I cannot remember how I find myself sitting in a boat floating on some strange waters. I have a paddle and that is all I have. I can look in any direction but can see nothing but water. The water is neither still nor restless. It is quietly lapping and stretching to the horizon, merging with white skies. It is impossible to say where the water ends and the sky begins.

I sit there for some time looking into nothingness. Then I take the paddle and start paddling. I think to myself that if I paddle for long enough I should get somewhere or at least start seeing something. I do not know how much time passes, but i cannot see anything but water dissolving in white nothingness. I paddle more. After a while I cannot say if I have been paddling for a long time or just started. It feels the same to me.

An old man, wrapped in some cloak, who happens to sit on the other end of the boat, turns to me and says: “Are you hungry ? Let’s have some fish”. He takes a fish in his thin and bony hand, takes a knife in his other hand and starts cutting the fish. I realise that the idea of eating some raw fish is quite pleasant and I nod to the old man and stretch my hand. He carefully hands me a good slice of the fish, which he takes from its back. It is delicious. I think that I have never eaten anything better than this. I remember how usually, when we prepare a ceviche, we add some coriander, lime, chili, olive oil, a bit of salt and pepper, but now it is just raw fish and it is perfect. I sit there enjoying the fish and looking at the old man. He does not seem to be noticing my curious look and keeps cutting more slices from the fish and putting them in his thin mouth.

“Do you know where we are ?, I ask the old man. He looks around slightly puzzled as though my question never crossed his mind. He does not say anything. “Am I lost ?”, I continue. He looks at me for a while and then says, “Of course you are”. His voice is kind. He is looking at me as though at a very old friend, forgiving him for not recognising his friend after all the years.

“Of course I am”, I repeat his words to myself, “of course I am”… But I cannot make any sense out of it. If I am lost it should probably feel worrying, but I feel as peaceful and relaxed as I never felt in my life. May be only in some dreams – and I remember that I always feel so jealous when I am waking up and saying to myself: “God, how good and normal I felt in this dream…, why on earth can’t I feel like this in real life”. But now, sitting with my paddle on the boat it feels just as though all troubles of the world are totally gone.

“Where shall I go?”, I want to ask the old man, but I cannot see him around anymore. “Hm”, I think, but then just start to gaze into the white nothingness in front of me and all the thoughts leave me. I decide to paddle a bit more. I still cannot not say how much time passed since I realised I am sitting on the boat but then I notice that the water starts to change. The waves become longer and higher and the boat begins to sway. In a moment the boat starts to wobble so strongly that I am finding it hard to keep balance and not fall out. The whiteness around me is tightening and becoming grey. The water seems to have risen in the air and starts turning and turning around me. “A storm…”, I say to myself. I try to paddle through the grey rainstorm but the boat is uncontrollable. “I should reach the storm’s centre”, I say to myself, remembering that at the heart of a storm there should be a spot of total calmness.

I am caught up in the whirls of rain and impenetrable grey walls of water trying to hold to the boat. Up, down, to the sides, all my being is devoted to holding on. “I must reach the centre… or may be the centre will reach me…”, my thoughts become confused. I lay on the bottom of the boat tightly curled, cover my head with my hands and close my eyes. The swaying of the boat, the waves of water covering me one after another, the creaking sounds of the wooden boat, – all sounds and sensations start to form one whole roaring of the storm, that absorbs everything, flooding my consciousness and becoming me. Boat, water, rain, roars, whirls…, I cannot distinguish myself from that anymore, it is all One.

I notice that I am no longer feeling it all but observing from a distance… When I open my eyes, the storm is gone. I rise in the boat and see that everything is still. It reminds me of the northern white nights, where everything is illuminated from within the objects, without any source of light. Have I reached the eye of the storm ? I remember that the central spot inside a storm can reach up to tens of kilometres. But then it becomes of no importance to me. I am looking into the white shimmering light and I cannot not think of anything at all. I notice the bleaks of water here and there, the contours of the boat, but I am no longer wondering about anything. I am not wanting anything at all and that is it.