Before he became a shipbuilder, my father had been a carpenter, and one day, he took me to his small workshop. He wanted me to learn carpentry, but at first, I struggled to create anything useful. My focus was on the narrowness of the workshop, not on the piece of wood in front of me. After weeks of failure, I decided to give up my battle with the workshop and make peace with it. I stopped focusing on its cramped space and detached myself from any negative feelings. It wasn't long before I started seeing progress, and from the wood came a beautiful creation. That's when I realized that sometimes, it isn't just people we need to reconcile with, but things too—like the workshop. And now, it's the ship I must reconcile with.
The sea had become restless, and I hadn't slept in days. I went outside to get some air, and the sight of the waves rising and falling beneath the ship filled me with unease. The ship tilted from side to side, creaking with each wave's strike, sending sharp impacts through the vessel, waking everyone up. Although the storm hadn't yet arrived, the thick fog limited visibility to just a few feet. I struggled to climb the stairs and made my way to the front of the ship. It was a terrifying sight—the sky was pitch black, and the waves crashed relentlessly against the ship's hull. We were miles from any land, and the sea beneath us felt like an endless void. The feeling of smallness and helplessness overwhelmed me.
A month had passed since we lost one of our ships, along with twenty sailors. The faces of the survivors were somber, but we couldn't search for the lost ship, as the storms wouldn't allow it. The sea was unforgiving. And then, in the midst of the darkness, I saw someone standing near me—Abu Bakr. He was staring intently at the waves, his expression tense. I stepped closer until he noticed my presence. He looked at me with a mixture of surprise and weariness.
"Have you not slept yet, sir?" I asked, noticing the coldness in the air.
"I haven't slept a wink," he replied, his gaze still fixed on the sea. "The sound of the waves doesn't allow sleep to creep into my bed."
There was a brief silence before he spoke again, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I understand now what my father went through in his last days, waiting for the ships he sent out to return. It's like someone planting a stick in your heart, pulling it out, and planting it again, over and over, until you both fall asleep, only to wake up and do it again."
I didn't know how to respond. At that moment, words felt inadequate to ease his pain. He needed someone to listen, to share in his suffering. Sometimes, silence is the only comfort.
"Do you feel weak and helpless now?" he asked, and for a moment, I thought he had read my mind. It was as though we were connected in some way, understanding each other without words. He continued, "Man was born weak, but he deluded himself into thinking he had power. He built everything according to his size, to control it, forgetting the vastness of things beyond his reach—things like the sky and this sea. How small I feel when I look at them."
I nodded in agreement, feeling the same overwhelming sense of insignificance. A few minutes later, we parted ways, but I continued to stand by the sea each night, trying to reconcile with the ship, just as I had with the workshop. But the ship remained silent.