Last night I dreamt of boats. I dreamt of small boats on a big sea, pathetic unstable boats getting battered to shreds by gigantic waves. I dreamt of the unsteady rocking of the sea, without the wet spray and the cold and the salty sea smell. I dreamt only of the hammering and rocking, of the breaking. It was a broken and fretful sleep.
And it’s all because of the wind.
It came out of nowhere, a strong howling wind that seemed to blow in every direction at once. It was an angry wind, a fitful wind, a wind like wailing toddler throwing a tantrum. A toddler with the strength of an adult. The strength of twenty adults. It was that kind of wind. A Wyoming wind.
Lying on the top bunk in the Trail Bag, the gale was amplified substantially. Broadside to the main force as it was, the Trail Bag rocked threateningly. The vents rattled and the cups clanged against eachother and there was no rest in sight for any of us. Fretful with a half sleep, I curled up closer to my pillow and within the relative safety of the alcove created by the built-in cabinet beside the bed. If the trailer tipped, as it constantly felt like it was about to do, I’d be less likely to be tossed from the bunk and crash into the back-breaking board of the bed down wind. At least, that was the hope.
Yet the Trail Bag passed the test. She swayed and boogied in the wind all night long, and on into the morning. But she did not tip. Even if no one got much sleep, even if my dreams were fraught with small ships getting battered by the large dark waves of the pacific, even if the wind was still strong enough in the morning for the Monument Crew to cancel their morning shift and stay in camp. Even so, she did not tip.
No. That, that, was confined to my dreams.
