Sacha—The Way Back (Alexander Trilogy Book III)

by Stan I. S. Law

  He pulled his shoulders back.

  Alec made sure that Sacha would not fall back on his own expertise. The skipper had to rely on his own cognizance. He engaged Suzy in conversations, served drinks, stretched out at the bow, all to make sure that his son would not seek his assistance. When asked to do something, take the helm for a while or trim the sail, he would do so at once, but he would ask Sacha just how much he was to pull a sheet in, or release it.

  Alec remembered his first command on Lake Champlain. The conditions had been tougher then. Much tougher. But being in charge doesn’t get harder when conditions get hard. In a way, they are easier, because the range of options is diminished. You must do this or that. Sometimes, just this. Just a single option. You do it. You don’t have much time to think.

  A time will come when Sacha will face adverse conditions, he thought. For now this was enough. After all, he’d had a great deal more experience when he was Sacha’s age. Next time, he’d make it tougher. Alec believed that there were ways in which nature provided us with opportunities when we were ready for them. Or so it seemed in his own life.

  Nature obliged.

  After an uneventful sail, a delightful dinner and a reasonably quiet night, the next day wind was blowing right in their face. A cold front was coming in from the Canadian North, meeting the remnants of a Tropical storm still lingering over Lake Ontario. The waves were whipped up to at least four feet. He asked Sacha if he wanted to take them back to Kingston.

  “It won’t be easy, son,” he warned.

  “Do you believe I’m ready?” Sacha was searching for confirmation.

  “You must decide that, son. You must have confidence. But I won’t force you in any way.” He looked down at his son who was obviously in a quandary. “It could be dangerous,” he added.

  Alec forgot that his son did not understand the meaning of fear.

  Sacha decided to beat into the wind by pointing the bow due WNW and then lay off and sail ENE with the wind on the quarter. He wanted not only to test his own skills to the limit, but he was determined to test the boat as well. It wasn’t just that the wind was upwards of 25 knots, but it was gusty, with unpredictable squalls, which played havoc with the rigging.

  The Bayfield 36 is a heavy boat. With 6,500 pound full keel ballast, and an overall displacement of 18,500 pounds, she sails well into the wind. But beating into 25 knots blowing at you from the North, is a challenge for any sailor.

  After long hours of being tossed by the mounting seas that splashed against their port side with unremitting fury, Sacha commanded to have the main reefed a notch. An hour later, he asked his father to furl in the foresail. Alec obeyed without saying a word. He told Sacha many a time that on board one must either obey or take over.

  “And taking over amounts to mutiny, son,” Alec had added with not a trace of humor in his voice. “And the minimum requirement for mutiny is an impending death resulting from the captain’s aberrations. Otherwise, you are apt to walk the plank.”

  Sacha had no desire to walk the plank, whether he was apt to be fished out later or not.

  However, by that time Sacha had finally reduced sails his crew, as well as himself, have become soaked through and through. Neither Suzy nor Alec expected their son to push the boat to the limit, and therefore neither of them prepared their oilskins. Anyway, one hardly used oilskins during summer. But this? It took another fifteen minutes before Sacha was satisfied with the new rig and let his crew go below for a change of clothing.

  Many tacks later, well after sunset, when they finally got back to Kingston, Sacha asked his father if he’d done all right at the helm. To an outside listener, Sacha’s tone was halfway between youthful cockiness and uncertainty. Alec knew his son well enough to know that Sacha was covering up his discomfort.

  “We’re here, son.”

  “You know what I mean, Dad.” Sacha tried again, his tone even less sure of himself.

  “It’s not the way I would have done it. But, you were in charge.”

  “You would have fallen off and taken it easier on both tacks, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Sacha had laid out the course in order to test his skills. He was so taken by his opportunity of command that he did not take the comfort of his crew into consideration. That was a mistake, a selfish one, and now he knew it.

  “I guess I’m not quite ready...” he intoned sadly.

  “You are a proficient sailor, son. Where you’re lacking is in the humane department.”

  “I know.”

  Sacha sounded contrite. He knew his father was right. But when he’d been given command under such difficult conditions, his dark side came to the fore. He wanted to fight the elements and win. Not by using his mind or even heart, but physically. Like other humans. Like the millions of his species who fought wars, who killed or died for no apparent reason, driven by inane hubris; who in moments of emotional folly didn’t seem to care about life or death. He needed the experience. Sacha had learned the meaning of ego.

  “There is one other little detail,” Alec added when his son looked up from intently scrutinizing his wet sneakers. “It wasn’t your boat.”

  “Oh, my God,” Sacha bit his lip. “Will Grandpa ever forgive me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You brought the boat in, in good shape. What you must learn is respect for other people’s property.”

  Sacha never attached much importance to physical things. He was fully aware of their transiency, of their relative unimportance in the universal scheme of things. But he now knew that not everybody did share his opinion; that others have a right to their own perception of reality. To their own mindset.

  For a while Sacha looked so pensive, so despondent, that Alec started laughing. At first his son couldn’t understand what was funny.

  “After all, my son, it’s only a boat!”

  There was no figuring adults. They took things seriously and yet they didn’t. Or perhaps they knew when to stop. When not to go too far. Perhaps it was a question of balance. Yes, Sacha’s eyes lit up with new understanding. Life was a game, but it was played according to certain rules.

  “It’s a question of balance, right, Dad?”

  “Right son.” And he patted his son on the back.

  In spite of the sermon, which, after all, Sacha had asked for, Alec was quite overtly proud of his son. Out of an eleven-hour sail, Sacha held the wheel for three-quarters of the way. Maybe longer. The boy had staying power. He was made of stern stuff. Sacha had made a self-centered decision as to what he wanted to get out of the sail, but there was no fear in his heart, and he handled the wheel like an old sea dog. Perhaps better then I did when I was his age, he concluded.

  Of course, Grandpa John couldn’t have been angry. He probably would have lost track of the conversation if Sacha, or anyone else, tried to explain to him the return trip. Even two years ago John would have participated in the discussion. Four years back he would have gone with them.

  And then something had happened.

  Joan remembered it so well, as though it were yesterday. John had been sitting in his favourite chair, overlooking the lake when, all of the sudden, he’d lost consciousness. Not for long. A few, maybe twenty seconds, at most. This happened three more times during the same month. And then he was all right again, only his memory was gone. Not of what happened forty or fifty years ago, but what happened this morning. Or last night. Most of the time this didn’t seem to matter. But then, he started having problems with speech. The words just wouldn’t come out. There was one, perhaps the only compensation. It was that smile. Since those momentary fainting spells, John charmed them all with an incredibly unreserved, totally unabashed smile. It filled his eyes, it parted his lips, in a way which we can see only in the eyes, and on the lips of the very, very young. It was a smile that opened the heart of whoever he was addressing, unreservedly, and always with kindness. John, Grandpa John, became a very different man. Or perhaps he’d always been like t
hat, only his true self was hidden behind a mask of acquired refinement, of social skills, of savoir fair.

  Alec and Suzy tried, nevertheless, to tell JJ’s about the ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’ to which their son had exposed them. John smiled as though the only important thing was that they’ve all had fun.

  “It was fun, wasn’t it, son. Ah... I remember...” And John’s eyes drifted away.

  But he didn’t remember. He’d forgotten his own intrepid sails. He’d forgotten the feel of the water driven by the wind splashing on his face, while he stood braving the unknown, with Joan and Suzy below, snug and dry.

  “I remember...” he intoned again.

  And his face lit up with a smile of days gone by, of way-back-when, of memories all mixed in a potpourri of glimpses of Suzy’s smiling face, his own princess, his most beloved daughter. He loved his wife for being herself, for giving him sons, but most of all for giving him Suzy. He never stopped regarding her as the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world. And he really did remember her every smile, every twinkle in her eyes, every touch of her hand.

  “Suzanna...?” Only John called his daughter Suzanna. It dated back to his love of Mozart, and the Marriage of Figaro.

  “Yes, Dad. I’m right here.”

  But John felt she was near him regardless where she really was. Suzy owned a permanent place within his heart. He didn’t feel the need to remember other things. She was his memories. She filled them to the exclusion of virtually everything else.

  That’s not very fair to Grandma, Sacha thought.

  He cheated a little. Since he was ten or so, he’d learned to peek into the human subconscious, without anyone knowing about it. He did it not to pry, only to learn. And it didn’t do any harm to anyone. Yet, he felt uncomfortable doing so. He still felt like a Peeping Tom. He did it only in cases when he suspected that it would increase his understanding of the human phenomenon. Not to learn about things, only to learn about people. He felt he needed to know the human potential in order to reach his own destiny. When the time came. Whatever it was. Or would be.

  Lately, in his thirteenth year, Sacha felt more and more that his destiny would not be an easy one.

  It was the first time Sacha had witnessed the ravages of aging. He’d watched both JJ’s. Joan showed such overwhelming quantities of kindness—of tolerance toward her husband—that Sacha didn’t know existed in the make up of the human psyche. He still regarded mankind from the outside, like a thief trying to understand the mysterious darkness before entering the unfamiliar territory himself. But he no longer felt that he was being punished for unknown offenses by being encased in a human form, reduced to walking upright, on two feet, rather then flying through space on irrepressible wings of his mind, or his imagination. That other realm was and remained his true home. This was a new field of endeavour in which he felt, more and more, he was destined to leave his mark. Before being free once again. Before he could go back.

  It was a long journey.

  And he really appreciated the opportunities placed in his way. The JJs., the McBrides, his parents, the boys and girls at Grandma ‘Licia’s school. Those he could study from up close. He vaguely remembered Matt, a giant who once looked after his father. Matt was an enigma, yet he felt a strange affinity towards that man. And Maria, whose heart was so much greater than her intellect. Perhaps that was all that really mattered? The many others he’d met were more like reflections of themselves, casting shimmering shadows on the canvas of reality. So many of them did not seem to be real people. Whatever ‘real’ really meant.

  He sighted deeply. There was so much more to this human equation that he couldn’t find in books.

  Chapter 6

  Sacha

  NOTES FROM SACHA’S DIARY

  with dedication:

  “For my Parents”

  [Editor’s note: Sacha was born on June 25th at 1.30 a.m. PST, in Los Angeles. From the day he uttered his first sentence, he did not appear to recognize his affiliation to the physical mode of life; he did not recognize the Earth’s calendar, which has undergone a number of changes, as dictated by various religions and/or political regimes. Furthermore, Sacha refused to recognize the fact that he was actually born. He treated his arrival on Earth as just another adventure, the purpose of which he was determined to discover. In the light of all this, he started his own calendar, which begins on day one of his arrival on Earth in human form. June 25th, therefore, is day one of year one of his life.

  The first entry in the DIARY is dated 4+1, evidently celebrating the fourth anniversary of his arrival on Earth. In the first notes he explains that he has no idea how long he will remain on Earth, nor whether his life here is to have any bearing on the “unfoldment of human perception”. He dedicated his notes to his parents, to do with as they choose. He assures his mother and father that he has no intention of making any “profound statements”, only of attempting to explain his point of view, what he calls his “perception of reality”, which might be of interest to them.

  He seems to have recorded his thoughts sporadically, often writing nothing for years at a time. Then, his words would come at a flood, as though prompted by some turning point in his life. Only some of his notes are included here, as others appear to be of a more personal nature. Sacha’s early notes and the ideas expressed therein, those spanning the years 4 to 13, remain, for the most part, quite incomprehensible. They express a point of view quite alien to the human mind. Those we can comprehend, however, form the basis of this narration. The rest of the book is derived from countless interviews, press clippings and other sources, which at least for the present, must remain anonymous].

  SACHA 13+67 days

  There are things in my head I find hard to share with anyone. Even with mom and dad. Perhaps when I’ll write them down, they will arrange themselves into a more orderly flow. I always find the translation of holistic concepts into a sequentially structured communication somewhat limiting. It would be like attempting to explain a painting by listing the colours used, and then describing their pattern in a lateral succession. Other difficulties I’d already covered in my previous notes. In essence, the perception of reality espoused by people on Earth is very strange to me.

  Nevertheless, I’ll try.

  Most people I’ve met have given me the impression that they have some sort of problem to sort out. On closer examination it transpired that their problem had started with their first job, or with their marriage, or even later with their first child. Those people were either very ignorant or suffered from extremely bad memories.

  I distinctly remember my own first riddle.

  I am not referring to what people call ‘previous incarnations’. We all acquire problems in the course of our existence. After all, that is what the process of becoming is for. No one can possibly imagine how incredibly boring living would be without problems to solve. It would be like living in limbo.

  Like being dead.

  Really dead.

  I defy anyone to go for a whole week without a single problem to solve and not suffer depression. Only we don’t regard most obstacles we overcome as problems. We take care of them in our stride. When we do nothing for a little while, we feel a sense of listlessness, we feel we must get up and go. We need to face a challenge—any challenge; we must solve a problem—any problem, even if we create one in order to be able to solve it. We must remain active. They say that women must be, whereas men must do. This is partially true, although man and woman’s characteristics are, to a certain degree, interchangeable.

  Anyway, be it any of the things I’ve mentioned, or something else, like playing tennis, or swimming, or going for a morning jog, all those things point out quite clearly that none of us are capable of just being. In the physical body we must be active.

  We must solve problems.

  SACHA 13+68 days

  I have observed myself since I was a baby. This may be hard to accept, but you must realize that my body was that of
a baby, not my awareness.

  In the beginning, still imbued with the stillness of the Undiscovered Kingdom, I watched an idea entering my mind like a puffy cloud drifting across an otherwise clear sky. As the mental currents increased, I began to react to them. Then I recognized more ideas penetrating my awareness. They stirred me to look around, to observe reality through my physical eyes.

  Next I’ve learned recognition.

  I could tell one face from another. I’d learned to associate different faces with different things. There was the food face, the goo-goo-goo face, the silent assuring face... There had been many others to which I couldn’t attach an activity at the time. And all this I’d managed just by responding to my visual, aural and, to a lesser degree, tactile senses. My problem solving at the time was limited to telling one face from another. I couldn’t believe how clever the little body was. In addition, it performed an incredible number of functions quite automatically. There seemed trillions of electrochemical discharges in my baby head controlling most of these functions.

  What a magnificent machine!

  And yet, I couldn’t figure out why I needed this machine. After all, I was doing very well without it. Up there, in the upper realms, as my mother called them.

  But however we care to put it, once we enter a physical sheath, we are not allowed to stand still. Such are the laws down here. We live in turmoil of ongoing change. And boy, is that different from everything I was used to before! The greatest difference is, however, the concept of time. Up there, we are not conscious of it. We do not measure problems or solutions in terms of ‘how long do they take’. Time is a very relative concept, mostly used on the physical plane. On other plains it is much more fluid and flexible than any other dimension.