Another round of ten essays graded, another ten individual hells of banal pointless topics that I've seen hundreds of times before, frequently riddled with repetitive grammar errors, often to the point of near incomprehensibility. But I have to contort my brain to decipher them all so I can make accurate comments on the content. Saying that I cannot understand the content is not allowed. And then I must scrupulously mark each and every one of said errors for, if I cannot point to the exact evidence for the grade I give, the dissatisfied recipient is like to throw a fit and demand they be allowed to rewrite the paper as many times as it takes to get the grade they want and try to take it to the top if I refuse. That block took me two hours, up from an hour and fifteen minutes on the previous block. I'm starting to become mentally fatigued. Not good for I still have another block of eight to go...on this course. And I have to finish them all tonight. Even if I did believe in slacking off, tomorrow and into the next day I will be airborne and even if I was willing to fork over money for it, which I'm not, the internet in airports and on planes almost never works, or at best is agonizingly slow...especially when it's free.
I get up to stretch my legs and take a quick walk over to the kitchen where I pour myself another cup of my special extra hi-caf cinnamon toast flavored tea. Must remember to pack extra of that, both for the trip itself and to deal with jet lag on location. “I commute good,” I mutter as I return back to my loathed seat in front of the computer. in honor of the protagonist of EB White's “Across the Street and into the Grill," with whom I've long secretly identified, at least in the sense of attempting to cast routine modern life in a heroic context. But, even as the words leave my lips I am faced by the cold hard truth that my willingness to plow through the fatigue and boredom that comes with spending an entire day or more grading a massive pile of papers, does not constitute a heroic undertaking and thinking otherwise is a laughable departure from reality. I am not always, probably less than half the time, able to call up the feeling of heroism as I slog through grading. Instead, I feel like my life is empty, purposeless, and without meaning and I resent the cold, cynical modern consciousness that brands me as inferior because I would attempt to make it otherwise, or even wish that it could be otherwise. And damn whoever it was that mocked Mr. Commute Good as an example of our pathetic lingering obsession with narcissistic masculine heroism, to be replaced for the sake of all creation by invisible, nurturing feminine heroism.
I will be frank at the...well, it seems we are a good way past commencing now, but I will be frank anyway, you will not like me. You probably already figured that out but just in case. And, no, I don't have time to listen to any disparaging responses. I have luggage to pack, papers to grade, a dissertation from hell to work on. Oh yea, that's right. I should probably mention the reason for my trip is that, in an effort to minorly improve my professional situation while still avoiding the crippling cost and eight plus year slog, I'm attempting to get a PhD overseas. It's cheaper and faster and should net me a raise of roughly five hundred dollars a course, which adds up to maybe a few thousand a year, though it will do absolutely nothing to increase my job security. The catch? I have to visit the issuing university a couple of times a year to meet with my advisor and air travel terrifies me
Nerves and my various responsibilities guarantee a late night and the need to check in a disgustingly long time before the flight guarantees an early morning. Thankfully, the powers that be created cinnamon toast tea. After the expected security debacle and having to aggressively rearrange the overhead bin which I find mostly filled with someone's oversized purse, I can finally sink into my seat, my home away from home for the next ten hours, and conduct the all important tasks of fastening my seat belt by inserting the metal tip into the buckle, then pulling on the strap until it fits snugly across the hips and locating the exit (and more crucially, bathroom) nearest me. These routine ritual actions help distract my mind from its frantic fear and create a fleeting illusion of security and safety, far too soon over. Even the process of finding the optimal way, given my limited seat space to store my sweat jacket, water bottle, and the five novels that, despite my flawless record of never making it through more than a quarter of them, I wishfully imagine I'll be able to read during the flight, only takes so long. We've barely begun the tortuously slow taxi by the time I finish and pull up the special take off playlist on my phone, in which Kenny Loggins' "Danger Zone" and Priest's "Halls of Valhalla" feature prominently. Runways, long pale roads into ruin, crawl past the windows, vanishing into the distance. The landing gear rattles and bounces over the ground, as always giving the false but totally convincing impression that it will be far worse in the air. Finally, we reach the terminus of our particular path of doom and the plane swings round, pointing its nose strait down the dreadful way and pauses as if teetering on the edge of a precipice, as the roar of the engine test fills the air and I squeeze my eyes shut, griping the arms of my seat.
The supplies are all packed, the casks of water, the barrels of whey and salt fish, our weapons and gear safely stowed underneath the rowing benches. The mast and sail, along with a spare sail that can double as a sun shade or rain tarp, are lashed to the deck of the longship. She's ready to launch, the rearing dragon head on the prow facing straight down the grooved run leading from the bank into the sea. Hands clutched around the strakes of the sides, we shove as she sticks like Hringhorn. My muscles are still pleasantly sore from my last workout at the gym two days ago, but it is a good ache, a reminder that I am am strong, capable, ready for the battles that await me in the place across the sea to which I am fairing. The keel grates against the stones of the bank, breaking loose. In the split second it hangs suspended, my comrades and I vault over the side and then we are hurtling down the run into the dark waters, my heart filled to overflowing with equal parts terror and wild exhilaration. The prow of the boat swings towards level as it strikes the water and I feel my stomach drop as the deck lurches beneath me. Again, it dips as another wave rolls under us, tilting back and forth until we finally level off and turn the rearing dragon on our prow to face towards our destination.
And we are off, running before the wind, the sail snapping briskly as we are driven along, the rush and roar of our speed filling the air around us. We are going a viking, braving the turbulent waters to make our fortunes in a distant land and return, laden with raid gold and battle glory, to win respect and reputation. But it is a demanding calling. The sea and sky are calm now, stretching blue to infinity save for a few white wisps of scattered cloud, but I know the danger, the might of nature, that could be unleashed without warning. Every voyage is a prayer to not encounter bad weather, a ceaseless state of anxious anticipation where every quiver of the boards beneath me could herald the start of the wild pitching, the mortal fear, trapped in this long narrow conveyance, surrounded on every side by elements inimical to life, even out to the very edge of sight. And even when such travel is not actively terrifying it is profoundly physically uncomfortable. There is little free space on the deck of the ship. The wind is cold and the flying spray stings, more so as a storm blows up, making the pitching motion of the vessel even more stomach turning. Before long, we have to reef the sail and row. When my stint at the oars is finished, I find an empty, relatively dry place in the stern between two lashed tubs of dried fish where I can wedge myself curled into a ball and, wrapping my cloak about myself, despite all the discomforts, manage to drift off to sleep.
A few hours later I am woken by the flight attendants because dinner is being served, despite the fact that the seat-belt sign just dinged on, possibly, hopefully, largely to keep the aisles clear for the meal service. That or I slept through the worst of it. As is their custom, the airline meal options failed to differentiate between vegetarian and vegan or to consider the basic nutritional needs of either so, per usual, there's no protein. Shifting uncomfortably in my cramped seat, I grope for the emergency secret protein stash in my backpack, as I ask the flight attended to skip the coffee and tea and just give me a cup of hot water, into which I dunk one of my precious cinnamon toast tea bags. Nibbling my food as my tea steeps, I can feel the cold, hostile glare of the outside world on me, aware that, to many, the proceeding paragraphs could most accurately be categorized as melodramatic, deranged twaddle. I've internalized the criticism from so many sources, that my need to frame everything as an epic struggle, a heroic quest worthy of the greatest adventure story ancient or modern, brands me as childish, self-centered, and unequipped to cope with the “real world.
And yet here I am white knuckling the arms of my seat as the cabin rattles around me, despite the fact that just a few years ago the very idea of getting in a plane made me want to piss myself with fear and even now I can feel my heart race, on my way to do exactly what those nay-sayers think I should be doing, engage in gainful employment and professional development. Or, as I would describe it, I am on a perilous journey, crossing the wild sea in order to win wealth for myself and by seeing it at such and only by doing so, have I been able to do it. Why, why, in all the hells why can they not praise me for using the tools that work for me rather than insisting that I must remake my whole inner landscape to fit their arbitrary standards? The plane takes another bounce and I screw in my ear buds with shaking hands, then crank the metal, before pushing back the remains of my dinner tray and reaching for my tea.
The sea is still choppy when we sight land and angle in towards the coast. My stomach remains tied in anxious knots by the motion under me but they are balanced by the knowledge the ordeal will soon be over and by my adrenaline fueled focus as I prepare myself for the exertion that will be required as soon as we make landfall. Before us rises a gray cliff, speckled with dull green where patches of moss and scrub cling to the steep rock-face. As we draw nearer, atop this promontory we can see a tumble of crude stone and timber buildings. One, slightly larger than the others, topped with the iconic shape of a cross dark against the sky, marks this as one of these people's sacred places, the perfect target for a raid where they store the vast majority of their wealth and where, conversely and incomprehensibly, all the inhabitants lack any form of combat ability. The eager anticipation of victory rises in me as I gather up my war-gear that has become scattered and disorganized during the long voyage in preparation for our landing. The excitement and distraction are fortunate as our final approach, as is so frequently the case, proves the roughest ride of the whole voyage, the shallower water near shore churned into choppy surf by hidden shoals. I grit my teeth and try to think only of the trials ahead, trials in which I have far more active power.
The boat beaches with a final shudder and it takes me a moment to realize it's over. Then I'm leaping from the ship, the weight of the mail across my back hardly felt. The jolt of solid ground under my feet goes rippling up my spine, the bone locks snapping together to form a sturdy column, as I join the trail of others clambering over the rocks and making their way up the stony path winding from the shore to the monastery on the cliff top. My tred is firm and I keep pace easily despite the fact, as is so often the case after completing a voyage, I can feel the solid earth shake and pitch under me. A harsh croak comes drifting down from the sky and I look up to see the black shape of a raven silhouetted against the clear airs, circling in wide wheeling loops above us. A wise bird, he knows our coming means food for him. Thus far, he is alone. No one else knows of our arrival but the beat of our tread and the jingle of our mail cannot go unmarked for very long.
We are maybe a little more than halfway up the weaving cliff way when we are spotted. A brazen clangor suddenly splits the air as someone begins wildly ringing the bell in their shrine of tumbled stones. I grin as the clashing notes become increasingly frantic for the sounding of the alarm aids us far more than it does them. There is no help to come to them, certainly none that can reach them before we are long gone and so the call does little but spread panic. What can they do against us? There isn't even a palisade around their settlement. The buildings just stand on the open hilltop and we are able to walk right in, heading directly for the larger structure with the cross where experience has taught us the best valuables are kept. They have managed to close the heavy wooden doors of this building and wedge something behind them to bar the entrance from being opened again but even that proves only a minor delay. A not yet fully dismembered log snatched off a pile behind one of the smaller buildings splinters the barrier in record time and then we are inside like wolves among sheep. We don't even bother to kill most of them. They are too harmless to be worth the trouble. But some, those braver, or more foolish, or more fired by faith, attempt to hinder us as we go about our work and then it is like swatting flies, simply a matter of brushing them aside, as roughly as needed when they get between us and the gold. The objects on the altar, the plates and cups and candlesticks, the most obvious and potentially most lucrative, are quickly snatched up and then we start poking about into side rooms and outbuildings.
©Amanda RR Hamlin 2026
