At Sea

I’ve grown weary of late, trying to convince those who will not see that our loves – yours and mine – can span centuries. But with Justin’s latest effort – Living for Love – and the lyrics within it, I felt ashamed at not trying harder.

And so I thought I’d tell you about my encounter with Graeme. It might confirm in your mind that I’m delusional. On the other hand, for those who know in their hearts that what I say is true, you will appreciate that the truth always takes courage.

If you haven’t read my previous posts, none of this will make sense. I encourage you to open your mind, and scroll down to the bottom, reading back to this point.

And thanks for taking the time.

After Justin received my note in 2010, and my apology for taking so long to realize the situation fully, three long years went by. I waited. But then in early 2013 he launched Spirits of the Western Sky, saying “the things that had to be said” “from the heart”. Then the first Moodies Cruise was announced, to sail that March.

I knew I had to be on it. But I was terrified. The last time we had been together on a ship, we died. I wondered if, in a cruel twist of fate, we were to be reunited at sea again, only for some dreadful accident to cause us to perish once more. But I knew I had to go.

I wanted to go alone but my husband insisted on coming with me. He worried that if I didn’t get the result I wanted I would fall apart. I’m stronger than that. Being in this situation has made me that way.

I wrote the following immediately after my chance encounter with Graeme on board the ship. Graeme, with his wry sense of humour and sharp wit. The man I thought would kid me unmercifully were he and I to become friends. I was so wrong.

“Graeme, I’m sorry to bother you.”

I felt the warmth of his skin penetrating the wiry hair on his arm. He stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to me. His eyes were brown and glinting with intensity.

“Yes?” he said sharply, and I felt I had one half second of his attention and no more.

I looked into his eyes, still mystified at how I happened to be standing there. Only a second before I had seen him and vaulted up the stairs, my husband trailing behind me. A blast of sea air came in at the door, heavy with musk and moisture. I took a deep breath and felt it fill me.

“I’m Andrea”, I said, hoping, half expecting a smile of relief. Finally! he’d laugh and pump my hand. What the hell took you so long!

His eyes narrowed. They shone like black stone, every glint of light stabbing my heart, warning me not to try, to go back. But I was there, on the edge of the cliff I’d been backing away from all my life, the one you throw yourself over when you believe. When you believe in your truth. When you believe the universe is a good place and will support you.

“I’m the woman Justin is looking for.”

His head jerked back, as did his arm. The warmth and wiry hair were pulled from under my hand.

“Absolutely not!” he snapped. Indignation jumped into his eyes, and his body recoiled.

My brain lost connection to my body as thoughts raced madly, hitting each other, confusion and pain bashing around inside a head that couldn’t contain them. Did he say “absolutely not” twice? I stood there stupidly, with nowhere to hide.

But I burned with humiliation as he walked on with a small woman dressed in black by his side. “What did she say?” she asked.

“She said she was the woman Justin is looking for,” and he shook his head in disbelief. His voice was loud and brassy. Not the voice of a man I thought would be a friend.

They retreated down another stairwell, her heels clacking on the hard steps.

I was routed to the floor. My husband was behind me. But so was one of our dinner mates. I flushed with shame as he glanced at me and then away. “Oh well, he said, “at least you got to contact him.”

My husband steered me past him and through the doors toward the deck. Outside I found the rail, leaned my head against the glass and felt waves of adrenaline and nausea wash through me. My stomach ached with the tears I couldn’t shed.

How could Graeme have been with Justin all those years and not known his heart? How could he write The Spirit and not remember? On the other hand, what if I’m wrong? I felt a rush of anger. How could Justin provoke a hoax? And insist he spoke from the heart? But no. How can I explain the knowing, even as a young girl, long before there was any evidence to support it? Why would it stay with me all my life, if it was untrue?

My husband was there by my side, giving me water, giving me space, giving me love. Holding me up as much as the rail.

He tells me my life is not empty. He tells me my greatness is not what I hoped to do, but what I have done.

It is late that night as I sit alone on the balcony of our stateroom, with the ever constant searchlights spraying over the waves that radiate from the ship, and the roar of the sea like cymbals in my ears, that it hits me: Graeme thought I was offering myself as a whore.

And hope survived. It still lives.

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