Submarine: Only in my dreams

Here’s the thing…

submarine

from en.wikipedia.com

I don’t like being on a boat in the middle of water.  But in Dreamworld, water isn’t quite the same, especially if you’re on a submarine that’s sitting in port.  Water flows past it in long, skinny streams.

All right.  I’m getting ahead of myself.  Can I get a new head instead?  No?

 What do you mean, “You can’t recover from a crainectomy!”???

.

Sigh.

Sailboats make me nervous. I was on one in Galveston Bay when a storm began to brew.  I was the killjoy on the boat, insisting that we make it to shore. That was a few decades ago, and I haven’t been on a sailboat since that time.

Cruise ships aren’t as bad as smaller craft, but it’s not my first choice for travel.

The submarine in dream world looked more like a cruise ship on the inside.  It had pill-shaped windows to the outside world (about 3 feet by 4 feet) and a hallway at least 8 feet wide.  But there were difference that can only exist in the pits of a Dreamworld mind.

I mean, really…carpet?  On a submarine?  

If that isn’t a sign you’re in a dream, I don’t know.

As I close my eyes to type this out, I can clearly see the hallway skirting the perimeter.  You’d think the rooms would be where people could see out the windows, but no!   It’s not like you could just open a window so thick that it looked like the glasses worn by a giant Mr. Magoo.

From: mudslides.com

So I’m sitting in my room when the captain enters wearing a polo shirt and looking like he’s on his way to a golf game.  

He says, “There’s an earthquake coming.”

I scurry about a submarine the size of a suburban block, telling people to stay in their rooms and close the doors. Then I stand by the windows and watch water flow past the ship like — you guessed it– a stream flowing past a long, slender submarine-shaped rock.  

Outside, boulders create a barrier between the sub and the shoreline.  Inside, it feels as if I’m on a kiddie ride that’s trying to lull me into sleep.  And yet, I feel no danger inside the ship.  After the quake, I tell people there is probably going to be an after shock.  

As if I would know.

I’ve only been in one significant quake. 1989, San Francisco, and there were aftershocks. 

In the entire dream I’m never frightened, except when the captain opens the a hatch that looks like it belongs on an airplane.  He calls for his dog.  She’s standing on a wooden dock.

Clean and white, she stares at him as if to say, “What’s the problem?”

I’m still trying to understand why that dream was so clear I could feel the carpet under my feet, or why I was such a know-it-all giving orders to people who had far more understanding of seafaring than I ever want to know about sea going craft.

Personally, I think the dog was smarter than all of us.  I’m going back to bed.  Maybe in the next dream the dog can tell me what this one means.