He was soon Borne Away by the Waves

Dashing across the boards of the mighty Titanic, I reveled about all the moments of inspiration waiting for my hand to give them flight. I often find myself thinking about the ways in which meaning, sounds, colours, and feelings—all fleeting and fragmented moments played yet at once—how all of this, can be magically turned to imagery through writing. I dreamed of being an author; even if not well known during my lifetime, I was fascinated by those who came before me, hundreds of years ago, of whom we still read today and who knows?—We might read 'em for another hundred years! What will they think? And perhaps, will they read it in a different light? Well, anyways in short, I couldn’t find a reason in the world why this trip wasn’t meant to be my motivation for my masterpiece, my reason. Looking out onto the horizon, the April wind brought forth a chill of excitement. And as the Titanic set off I held on to my aspirations firmly.

* * *

Clutched in my hands, I held Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. I felt compelled to bring it with me because I was moved by one of my English professors who went on and on about the text last semester. I had been particularly moved by Shelley’s writing not only for its quality and movement, but I had enjoyed the setting in which she was inspired to write. Or at least, as it was told by my professor. Mary had been surrounded by good friends, many of whom went on to be talented writers themselves. One of the fellers’ names escapes me—the one with whom Mary had a more intimate relationship with —but the other, “Lord Byron” I believe, I had to read some of his work for another class so I was quite fascinated by the chance of them all getting to know each other and all turning out to be well known authors. Anyways, they had gathered to compete for the best horror story. Mary came up with Frankenstein, and the rest I guess, is history. When it came to reading it, most folks had talked a lot about the monster and so I hadn’t initially received the text with any enthusiasm. It was the detailed descriptions of frost and cold however, of the “icy climes” of the London streets contrasted with that of the Artic landscape that enthralled me. And it was this desire to travel and write back to loved ones, precisely, with the hope that I might create a life of myself rather than that of a monster, that brought me along the Titanic. So, as I now sit patiently, re-reading and feeling the pages of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein amongst utter panic, it feels quite fitting to find myself at the mercy of an iceberg and a frigid and vast ocean.

The creeping sway of metal scratching against the enormous iceberg before a sudden onslaught rush of water, was purely inexplicable. Pouring unrelentingly, the water had now completely engulfed the front of the ship and the bulk of us had moved towards the back of the ship, which was slowly yet rather quickly, tipping its way into the Atlantic. At some point amongst the hustle, screams and cries of women, children and men—passenger and crewmate alike—I decided I was to find a spot I quite liked considering the circumstances, to perch myself in meditative wait. I hadn’t seen the point in continuing any attempts of getting off on the lifeboats as they were only taking in women and children. Seeing that I was a young male, well, I guess that deemed me fit to fend for myself. Alas, it was the very back of the boat that fancied my occupation. Perhaps because it gave me a good point of view of the panic, whilst keeping me away from it for a moment. From here I observed my surroundings, and closing my eyes, found the noise slowing tuning to a dead channel as I released thoughts of fear. Or rather, once numbly succumbed to the idea of my fears, I felt the screams could be pushed farther away from my reality. A trio of men from the orchestra, talented violinists, played on. And so, with deep breaths, I focused my attention on Frankenstein: I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight...

* * *

I can just barely hold on anymore, certainly, I cannot read seated any longer. The stern of the Titanic begins to tilt dangerously towards the sky now. The violinist’s pressed on with their final movement of their symphony about an hour ago. I am impressed and a little less lonely still. I hold on to the railing at the stern, and finish the last few sentences aloud, "'But soon,' he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm,"–and I too, dropped a tear from my eye– "'I shall die, and what I now feel be no longer felt,’” —cap to heart— ‘“My spirit will sleep in peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think thus.'" As if on cue— as if it had sprung from Mary Shelley's words themselves, my attention was caught by an ice-raft which lay close to the vessel. Rubbing my eyes in wonderous illusion, the ice-raft was still there, slowly drifting close by. Seeing my moment, I sprang from my spot, tucking Frankenstein into my pants. Running along the boards of the ship, I pounce over the railing and fasten onto a hanging rope, which safely brings me two levels below. From here, I again pounce over the railing– this time diving into the waves. "Farewell!" I shout, soon to be borne away by the waves, lost in darkness and distance.