Quiet

N46° 04.03’, W081° 33.69’—For a moment it was quiet, completely quiet. Not even a bird. Not a ripple in the water. Not a rustle in the trees. The quiet was overwhelming. My senses want to fill in the void. But there is nothing to work with. The space between my ears intensifies. I tell myself not to panic. Soon there will be noise, but there isn’t, so I calm down and watch the silence. In the distance an otter is diving and surfacing. His head is the only thing out of the water and I can see his whiskers move as he munchies on whatever otters munch on. I have to backtrack and say that diving is too active of a word for how the otter arches its back and slides into the water. But that is not correct either. It is already in the water and is going from a nose to a face and then a glistening back and then all that is left to disappear is the tail. A large raptor flies over but there is no noise associated with its transit. Nothing breaks the silence until dinner. And now that that is over I hear the clock tick off the seconds of my life and a white-throated sparrow calls, but now he has even stopped—well almost. Carrie Rose silently sways at anchor maybe 20 to 30 degrees. Occasionally Charlotte turns a page and I feel that my mind needs a sound even as it hopes for silence. No Mozart, no Bach and certainly no Bruckner or Mahler. Sibelius may be acceptable; somehow he captures silence in sound. Then I hear a grunt from the shoreline. An odd bird circles above, a bit like the nighthawks I never see anymore in Chicago. A flutter of wings, and then a short glide and intermittent call; a distinctive call but a call I cannot now describe. Twilight comes and still it is quiet. I have a friend that sailed around the world and recently brought his boat to a marina in Brooklyn of all places. I asked him what is it like and he says, “The noise is deafening.” After today I understand.