“And so I’ve arrived…Tryna see the island… Only a matter o’ time…” it was a trying moment for Cap’n Tom George Flynn. There was a lurch in his gut as moonlight flickered across ripples of sea–a curtain of fog clouding his sight. Despite the ship merely rocking instead of sailing, bobbing in place with no anchor latching it to the depths of the sea floor (in case they had to move at the split of a second), the chill of the evening caused his hair to flutter along with the sails of his ship “Destiny. Nervousness heightened as the hands of a silver watch ticked in his coat pocket—second-by-second..
“Pairin the wind breath..” he whispered, watching the wisps from his mouth fleet away like smoke that blended with the fog. He was wishful enough that his breath could pick up with speed and might, breaking into magical gusts together with the wind to push “Destiny” in some substantial direction if they were to move. The ship wasn’t anchored yet as it stood at a rocking standstill. He’d been waiting for some time while disappointment and hope remained.
As his actions often matched his contradictory feelings—that, despite the chill, he fumbled for the cool comfort of the watch’s surface against his clammy palm. “Shiver me timbers..” he said more loudly, handing the telescope to a slender blonde-haired boy of about 16 who eagerly took it.
“Are yeh sure, my Cap’n? Will we be able to see Self-Island or the island arc?” The young sailor asked gently, peering through that telescope lens. He was puzzled that it revealed nothing other than what his naked eyes could see as the fog danced, flaring its skirt, revealing vast, cerulean sea with a tint of red here and there—appearing as some illusion of the moon—yet there were no hints of an “island arc”, specifically Self-Island, or any land for that matter in sight.
“Haven’t yeh heard—the magic dragon is floatin’ out there, blowin’ the fog from outta its fiery nose” a ruddy, haired pirate with whiskers replied, and went “pufff…” He stood at the wheel, blowing his pipe, exhaling smoke from his own nostrils as he imitated the sound of a foghorn.
The most burly pirate of them all—a giant of a man with a long, furry beard chuckled a hearty “hardy, har har”.
As much as he had hope—frustration and worry continued spiraling in the Captain’s mind.
They hadn’t tossed the anchor as they were waiting for some direction as to where to steer. Would the fog ever clear—and would the Cap’n receive any clues as to what course of action to take next?
To move or to wait? The last card in the Manual for the module “Integration of Realities” had ambiguously stated, “Kindly wait upon reaching the listed coordinates for Self-Island,” While the chieftain had mentioned, “I cannot further tell what is to happen once you reach there as the journey is yours…” he then continued, “once you get there, though, you’ll having to wait.. then you’ll know”, later warning, “…just don’t get caught by the dragon.”
They had reached the right coordinates on the map—yet it was simply a matter of knowing what to do aside from waiting.
While to the rest of the crew, it appeared they were on coordinates 61.140992 N, -65.271686 W with the closest landmass being the tip of New Foundland, North America—which they could easily reach by morning.
These were not ordinary waters, even though they were on the Atlantic. They had entered uncharted territory—an imaginary sea named the Sea Of Meaning —interweaving with the waters of one of the world’s biggest oceans—the mighty Atlantic—, renown for being the graveyard of ships with voyages occurring across it from one tip of the earth to another at every time of day. “Destiny” hadn’t sunk into the abyss of time, nor had it dipped past the horizon to sail off the edge of earth.
Instead, the Cap’n and his crew had crossed into a mysterious zone —the Sea of Meaning—where the mind met reality—where all thoughts drained– and where even the notion of time was a concept carried by the sea’s waves.
They had arrived on the Sea of Meaning by crossing the International Dataline on the Atlantic, not to be confused with the International Dateline, a term coined over a century later at a conference in 1884 to determine an imaginary line used at sea marking a change in day once crossed—if the line was to be crossed to the left of the line, it would mean being 1 day ahead, anywhere to the right of the dateline would mean being 1 calendar day behind. The position was originally chosen to be London, England but was later changed to a position in the Pacific in 1910, (according to the years in your dimension).
The International Dataline, however, is the boundary line from where the thoughts from each self’s mind are carried into the Sea of Meaning.
Here, for the few who knew about the International Dataline and the Sea of Meaning, it was the point where the mind and geography intersected to become reality—where all thoughts from every mind in history drained… in other words —the data—…thus, the stains of blood from every brain got carried here; its waters were stained crimson as if they were an extension of the Red Sea that the Messenger Moses had parted, leading his people across it to the promised land.
The Sea of Meaning was also a crossing—that of mind—, across which breath and wind swept, carrying thoughts from every single brain throughout history in the form of currents towards the Cosmic Web which served (or serves) as an entryway to parallel worlds, specifically the Inter-Routes.
However, to most, it was not apparent that there was a Sea of Meaning crisscrossing with the Atlantic at all. To them, the crew was considered as being in the normal world—the Atlantic. Perhaps common-sense might have convinced the Cap’n to go in that direction—to hit a coastal town or village in North America by morning. What could be deemed most practical by the opinions of others was living his life through conventional piracy or privateering— although the life of a regular pirate was considered a colorful lifestyle by most.
Considering that it so seemed to everyone else—even his among own crew who blindly followed him—that they were within the normal realm, was he to wait or steer? Having come this close, if no signal was to come, would he return to the ordinary world—and if not, for just how long would he have to wait?
The Captain peered upward at the stars… knowing well that among them were flickers of a cosmic intelligence there to guide him if he was meant to move—that is if he could receive information from them as to where he’d steer on these waters.
The fog was too thick a barrier—though whenever it intermittently drifted, it revealed some glimpse of the heavens. To receive any information as to where to steer, he’d send to become a receiver—an antenna, (telecommunications was ironically a technology he wasn’t aware of in his time period—though he could unknowingly send Morse Code!). He would become a receiver by having his brain cells connect with the stars. It wasn’t entirely far-fetched given the underlying structure of the brain was highly similar to that of the universe—and cracking the System of Self meant connecting a self’s mind to cosmic intelligence.
Again, to become a receiver, he’d have to find stories in himself that he could link to stars for guidance.
He’d have to plough the right stories from his own life relating to his purpose for existing. This would be what would lead him in the direction of the Philosopher’s Stone under Self-Island…and if only if he found the right stories within himself—from his life—could he map them to the stars in the sky and be guided. Afterall, the stars were always there to provide directions or road signs as to where to steer on usual waters.
Such was the case under normal circumstances, whenever it came to conventional navigation and when he was in the Northern Hemisphere, he’d pinpoint the plough or Big Dipper to guide him, (a part of the Ursa Major constellation, in other words, the Great Bear) to Polaris, the North Star—from there he could trace to a multitude of other stories and stars. These stories/shapes of stars were his anchors in the sky informing him on where he was on Earth.
The stories he read in the stars often involved titans of Greek mythology—with a cast of familiar characters, or constellations—groupings of stars that create recognizable patterns in the sky, (the anchors). By knowing, their shape, position and stage cue of where these constellations were in specific regions of the sky—he could follow them and steer according to their position— such as on nights when the Big Dipper was not visible to lead his eyes to the North Star, Polaris, he could count on a group of 5 stars to guide him instead.
This constellation of 5 stars was an irregularly shaped “M” or “W” depending on whether the vain Queen whose story is represented by these stars was dangling upside down; from the wider V of either the “W” or “M”, he’d draw a straight line from its middle to locate the North Star.
This vain queen the Greeks had ascribed to the grouping of 5 stars was Cassiopeia who’d boasted of her beauty, claiming that she and her daughter (Andromeda) were more beautiful than the sea nymphs. As a punishment, a sea dragon by the name of Cetus was sent to wreak havoc on the queen’s kingdom— so Casseiopeia was sent up to the sky with her daughter, Andromeda. Half the year, Cassiopeia hangs upside down as further punishment denoting her shape, entailing either a “W” or “M”. On the nights she hung by her feet, the Cap’n imagined her singing operatically of the woes she faced in the presence of neighboring stars, among them Cetus himself.
Other stars in the cast of the Northern crew was of course the Captain’s trusted Friend—Orion the Hunter. By reading the three stars on Orion’s belt—the Cap’n could navigate anywhere—specifically in the directions of east and west, as he was guided to read more stories in the belt and steer. Reading the stars was a mechanism the Cap’n preferred over a compass for a compass couldn’t always indicate the direction of North as accurately as Polaris, the North Star… nor did it feel as entertaining.
And for that reason, it was often stories he’d use to direct “Destiny”.
Thus, he was to replace the myths he had usually ascribed to the stars with stories from his own life—to map to the stars —in order to direct “Destiny” on the Sea of Meaning.
Mapping his own stories to the stars would also bring forth the supporting waves directing him where to go…as he knew he was on unusual waters carried from the brain.
At least this was what he read in the Manual and what the Chieftain had confirmed.
However, digging deep inward for stories was not always easy— ironically, as the Big Dipper shone above him, there were too many stories in his life… too many things that inspired him—life lessons he was still learning from a trove of memories filled to the lid.
He was hoping the worm he’d read about from the Manual would help bring the island arc, specifically Self-Island into view… by doing some clearings from the depths of his mind considering that he was at the zone where the mind intersected with geography. As the worm cleared, maybe it would bring Self-Island into view like newly-born islands in real life that rise from the sea to appear in sight.
After-all, his powers of vision had become optimized as a result of eating the fruit—thus, the appearance of Self-Island could rise to surface of his awareness and line of vision.
If that didn’t happen, well, maybe the fog could eventully clear. The night was young afterall, and not all the stars had appeared.
The night sky would reveal a panorama of new stars as it opened its curtain further as Earth rotated along her axis…revealing a new cast that might awaken in him some guidance of which stories to link until the sun, a star itself, rose to center stage.
Meanwhile, Cetus, the sea dragon was up in the sky, and they hadn’t yet caught him—thus, the question still was—for just how long would they stay—and when would they move? The anxiety paired with determination was enough to make him feel as if they were stirring an “I” of the storm.
The Captain redirected his attention to the ruddy haired pirate, second in command, who smugly smoked his pipe.
“Quit yer yappin’ , I’ll be choppin yeh up an’ be feedin’ yeh to the dragon meself whereupon the waves will toss thee up into a savory helpin’ o’ pirate stew.. if yeh dare doubt my words..”
Silence befell upon the crew.
…”an’ thou bloody damned be sure..… if I say Self-Island be out there, it is—as it all exists in me mind…” The Cap’n then blew his breath, huffing in the ruddy haired Pirate’s face to blow out the latter’s pipe.
However gruff, grizzly and by most accounts—insane, Captain Tom George Flynn was at his essence a cultured man with an affinity for legends. His legions of travels included the many journeys he made across land through England—on the quest for Merlin’s court, or his pursuit of solving the mysteries of Stonehenge, then off from his hometown of Bristol he’d sail, (always wondering if underneath him were the ruins of Atlantis and if he could fish out a floating relic as proof of the mythic empire’s existence) to embark on several quests throughout the Middle East—with a hunger for legendary tales such as the Knights Templar; from there, he’d been on his way to the Far East, tracing the footsteps of Marco Polo in search of exotic spices—setting foot from one tip of the world to the other.
Truth be that he had gone everywhere and was truly a spirited traveler; windswept by dreams of extraordinary vision and convinced in the feasibility of pursuits others deemed unachievable. His crew hadn’t quite understood his enduring pursuit of lofty goals and certainty in an invisible island… yet they all, specifically the young lad, somehow trusted this fool of wild instinct..who always proved to know best–a man blinded by his delusion…yet who could still see possibility —while having the self-awareness to admit he was crazy. And for that, he earned their loyalty and was deemed their beloved captain. He always provided the thrill of adventure—and his enthusiasm only became more contagious after eating the “blasted fruit…”
Amid that silence, with the rocking of the ship, and blown out pipe…and the pale face of the ruddy haired pirate–it was if the same thought blew through their minds all at once (afterall, they were on the Sea of Meaning—the intersection of minds). All at once, they rose their tin cups and the burly pirate reached for the fiddle.
“Cuz o’ him we ain’t stupid drunkards—we’re enlightened drunkards.. Arghhhh..cheers to the Cap’n!! Long live Tom George Flynn!!” and began to merrily jig.
The captain’s feet could seldom resist a good jig… thus, he put them to use. As moments were ticking, Captain Tom George Flynn knew he had to oust the competition and prevent any cosmic travelers from reaching their artifacts or the treasure in case any had spotted Self-Island before him… Thus, he jigged his way towards the stairwell as the music played behind him.
His boots clattered, dancing down the steps; he then rushed his way into his den and leapt to the mirror.
He looked at himself and saw the strain of worry and bags underneath his eyes.. Well, if he was going to be legend of all time… he better look good….
“Don’t want me to appear a slob..”
And so he preened himself, appearing as boastful as a barnyard rooster with an urgent call to make—cock-a-doodle-doooooo .
Watch the video below to listen to Cap’n Tom George’s last announcement before he got caught by the “I” of the Storm.