Between Air and Water
The floatplanes rest quietly along the dock.
Still.
Balanced between air and water.
There is something about aircraft on water that changes the scale of things.
They do not rush the sky.
They wait for it.
An Unexpected Return
I walked along the harbor without expecting anything unusual.
And then I saw them.
Small bodies.
Metal wings.
Reflections trembling beneath them.
Memory Rising Quietly
As a young man, I used to fly ultralight aircraft.
Light frames.
Open skies.
Short runways that felt longer than they were.
Seeing these planes again did not feel like observation.
It felt like return.
There are moments when memory does not arrive loudly.
It rises quietly — like mist above water.
The Same Sky, A Different Self
Standing there, I felt something close to gratitude.
And something close to longing.
Not for the past itself.
But for the version of yourself that once trusted the air without hesitation.
I have flown in these floatplanes as a passenger since then.
Different seat.
Different role.
The sky remains the same.
Travel is not always about distance.
Sometimes it is about reconnecting with a former altitude.
If you’ve spent time in The Inner Voyage, you know this feeling:
a place becomes a mirror, and the heart recognizes itself first.
What Waits at the Harbor
The planes stayed moored.
The water moved slightly beneath them.
Some forms of love do not fade.
They simply wait at the harbor —
until you walk by and recognize them.
