The cello strings of the Hydra vibrated as my grasping fingers attempted to tune in a note of total safety. The instantaneous moment of my decision had been met by the fantastical rush of adrenaline coursing through my body in a commanding chord. Each muscle, ligament, bone, organ, cell, each tiny bit of mitochondria had rustled to their assigned places in the orchestra of my life and turned their instructions and liner notes to the special, impromptu, wonder-performance of the day, Concerto of Mast-Scaling. The virtuoso, one splendid and over-hyped Consciousness had arrived distracted, even abstracted, unaware of the fluid opening movement, a soft hum of rocking scales, evoked by the frenetic waiving of the conductor, the eminent and well respected Brain, the veritable central processing repository of the body.
To a casual observer, it would have appeared that the first movement was completed in a calm, minimalist automaton fashion. This did not dissuade all manner of patrons from scurrying to odd places on the theater of the deck to view the spectacle. Such luminaries including philosophical Chefs, carnivorously grinning Captains, and Egg-Headed bothers were spied as the ensemble followed the scale of loosely strung ropes and ascended and progressed to the quick-stepped second movement.
As the spotlight of the sun blinded my eyes, I stopped and rested before the second movement, pausing to eliminate the superfluous and ridiculous third person internal running narrative that had chattered away inside of me as a melodic counterpoint since I had grabbed the eggs and stood on the first shaky land legs of the voyage. The blue ocean writhed and swam below defying the notion that a planetary surface should be still. Clouds streamed across the baby blue sky, rippling past the billowing sails. The midpoint of the rigging was no time for stage-fright, especially since I had already made my rash decision.
It was therefore a step from frayed end to new neatly strung strand. An upward grab. One quick grip to a slow hold. The detachment of the first movement had fled, exchanged for the almost erratic, sometimes fluid chain of successive solo actions. My eyes momentarily flicked upward. There it was. The elusive beginning of the third movement. The wooden crow’s nest of a platform that marked the top.
My feet touched solid planking that seemed to be of the rarest wood, a soft billowing expanse upon which I rested as the boat bore me along across the blue reaches of the world. My hands grasped fast the smooth upper worn reaches of the mast. The roar of blood in my head punctuated the energetic finale, crashing with a wild crescendo. I had but a few beats left to end the performance in triumph. Deftly, I braced myself and released the eggs, which fell swiftly and sweetly to their designated spot, ending the performance simply in a splatter finer than any fusillade from a battery of cannon. As the cheers and admonitions rose swiftly, I stood quietly like any good diva, basking in my moment of moxie, content that the effects had sprung from a sound cause.