Boats on land

I live on the coast and often go for walks in the outskirts. Thanks to these walks, over time I've discovered a scattered fleet of dry-land boats moored on the ground, as if this were the Atlantic and the tide had gone out.

Right now, the sky is clear and bright with wind. These boats must have sunk years ago, like leaves falling from a tree, from some naval battle in the sky. Abandoned boats in open fields, vineyards, or open-air warehouses, their hulls at the bottom of an evaporated sea, on waves of dust, their Estelada flags in tatters and their names faded from the stern, names like IthacaSometimes I don't find the whole boat, but just the small parts: the cabin with the wheel, the yellowed fiberglass hull stained with black mold, the rudder sunk into the ground like an old-fashioned grate, or the skeleton, amidst waves of brambles, the roots, the keel, and the ribs clinging to the ground. Instead of fish, there are birds and cats.

There will be no worse shipwreck than landing. Now, with spring, they will begin to sail amidst a foam of flowers. Before, they skinned the sea, which yielded white grease. They began an odyssey and lost a war. The captains and skippers fled, riddled the hulls, and sold the boats. The boats were ripped from the water by cranes and towed inland. They were abandoned in a hostile country, between fences of bed frames and barking guard dogs. What do you explain to the seaside dwellers? The children played for a while, but exposed to the elements, the boats rotted and became a danger, and now they are scraps that are an eyesore. In one boat, an immigrant has brought a mattress. In another, some teenagers sit looking at their phones and smoking. In the other, a drunk has filled it with empty bottles. They are a language muddied in the mire. The anchors have pulled the chained boats to the bottom. They've become submarines, but they won't go any deeper. I think of the families who went out to sea in the summer, the parties on board, the music, the books, cake and wine in the hold, the promise of a bountiful catch, the excitement and freedom.

When darkness falls, the boats dissolve into the night, with no lights on deck. Only in a storm, with lightning flashing across their faces, can they recognize each other for a moment. The next day they re-emerge like nightmares. If they grew legs, they wouldn't know where to go, because there are no lighthouses or ports on the ground. They just wait.