Cast adrift...

I was recently told a terrifying tale of a man who was a little worse for wear after drinking too much. I'm not sure of how much he had to drink or the circumstances behind the occasion that led to the man finding himself in an inflatable dinghy, but the very idea of passing out and then waking up the following morning in a dinghy and adrift far out to sea, alone, left me with goosebumps, mainly, perhaps, because it was the sort of predicament I myself might have been in back in the day when I occasionally 'overdid' the alcohol. Imagine waking up in an inflatable boat, on the open sea, no land visible, just horizons all around you, no oars and nobody around. There would be no point in shouting for help, nothing; all you can do is sit there hoping upon hope that the weather conditions will remain stable and that eventually you will be rescued. The man, whoever he was, has an exciting story to tell his pals, safe in the knowledge that he survived the ordeal, because he was eventually spotted and taken back to dry land. He had been 'cast adrift' and it got me thinking about that phrase and how it means so much more than just to float on the water in a boat that is not tied to anything or controlled by anyone.  

Sooner or later everybody is cast adrift from something or somebody. Often we cast ourselves adrift from different aspects of our lives as we get older. Suddenly, we are no longer concerned about music like we used to be, or going to the pub or the cinema, we leave it all behind as we race into our unknown futures. And very often what or who we left behind once played a major part in our daily lives, but now only exists as a distant memory. Inadvertently, perhaps, or out of sheer necessity or circumstance, we cast people adrift, we simply lose contact with friends and work colleagues, only to discover, years later, that they have aged and are barely recognisable. And of course, we're not exempt ourselves; other people cast us adrift too. Occasional chance meetings in shopping malls, busy high streets or rush hour railway stations raise a smile at a distant memory and are cause for momentary reflection. We must keep in touch, but never do.

What was once important to us is no longer. Our lives change beyond recognition and things we once regarded as routine activity, something we enjoyed immensely, is no longer important. We move on. Occasionally, the present might reference our past. Watching kids jumping into swimming pools on a summer's day, or enjoying some time on the dodgems at a fairground, things we had cast adrift many years ago, the memories flood back.

We all live in the here and now and exist in phases where we are surrounded by the familiarity of routine: breakfast, commuting, lunch, long, tedious afternoons, the train home, dinner, television and bed and then it starts over the next day. Routines, however, are also cast adrift; nappies no longer need changing, the school run disappears, toys for Christmas cease, sunny summer holidays are no more and the realities of life - the only constant - nag at us from the sidelines. Everything in life is temporary and fleeting and shifting and we adapt accordingly, storing the memories in the hard drives of our brains.

Memories are all we have. From being in the thick of a joyous period of our lives, we are left with nothing but ever-weakening reminders of those good times. We occasionally reminisce, our memories jogged by a piece of music or the smell of strong coffee, anything can trigger flashbacks. But if a time machine existed, would we go back? There are key dates in my life that I'll always remember and would love to revisit, but it's not possible, all I can do is smile when I think of them. Looking back is like the closing credits of an episode of Star Trek, I can see stills of key moments flashing before me as the music plays, but that's as far as it goes. What would going back feel like? Would time be rewound for everybody the world over? Would we be there, in the moment, as we were when it originally happened? Or would we be mere spectators? 

Celebrities, people in the public eye, are highly susceptible to being cast adrift. Anybody who catches the attention of the media are at risk of finding themselves on the Sea of Obscurity. How many times have you wondered about 'old so and so' only to find that the media has found an unflattering photograph and published it, prompting comments such as 'hasn't he aged!' or 'I can't remember the last time I saw her, it must have been ages ago'.

Everybody is cast adrift at some point in their lives, nobody really escapes, and we're all guilty of casting others adrift too, but I don't think those waking up alone in their metaphorical inflatable dinghies, surrounded by horizons on the Sea of Obscurity are unhappy or unloved or alone. There are always constants that act as an antidote, a vaccine. Very often - in fact, in most cases -  those cast adrift are asymptomatic, they are unaware of their condition, as, indeed, we all are, and simply get on with their lives until they encounter their past on the streets and have time to reflect on the magical worlds they used to inhabit.