Exploring V.U.C.A: The Final Letter of Elias.K.Lazenby

The Final Letter of Elias.K.Lazenby

1605. First Mate of the H.M.S. Vucalis, an East Indiaman of the East India Company

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My Dearest Anne.

It is with a heavy heart, though one brimming with love and the most cherished memories of you that I write, uncertain if these words shall ever reach your delicate beautiful hands. I have long sought to make a friend of thresholds, both in life and upon the decks of my ship, yet now, I find myself utterly lost. Lost not so much upon the waters, but within my very soul, adrift and all but alone in this damnation.

I long for you. To hold you, to breathe you in, to lose myself in the tenderness of your touch. My mind wanders oft to our garden, where we laughed, played, and laid aside all pretence of duty. You led me into that sacred freedom, where I was neither sailor nor servant of the East India Company, but merely a man, alive, unburdened, yours. 

I want to return to your shores, your harbour, your safety, your love. I long to be moored but alas I am marooned. Our ship does not move. The stars above shift, the waters ripple, yet we remain, unchanged, unstuck, as if caught within a dream of the gods. I often think, no hope, perhaps we never left England and all her glory. That, I might wake up and be at home with you. Other times my mind tells me, perhaps we never exist really, not fully. 

Seven months have passed since I last saw you, standing at the docks of Plymouth, waving your pale blue handkerchief. The image of your face is burned into my mind’s eye, yet even in dreams, you remain silent. I find solace and torment in Morpheus’s kingdom and the same it must be said, so too in Neptunes now.

I find no friendly faces anymore, no steady hand to grasp, no anchor upon, to which to steady my senses. We are not entirely lost in direction, but as men, adrift, broken, grasping for meaning where none can be found. I fear that some and I must include me in this, cannot abide it anymore.

Strange turns have marked our passage, as though we are ensnared within a mist one cannot see, a riddle one cannot hear that with no answer. The captain, poor wretch, mutters ceaselessly of ‘this damned liminal cipher’ as he locks himself away with brandy in hand. 

As first mate, I have had the misfortune of witnessing his descent firsthand. I fear he can not abide the liminality anymore and finds shelter and refuge in his brandy and devilish potions. Vucalis holds fast, though she bears the wounds of battle, of storm, and of the relentless sun. At night, her timbers groan as though sighing beneath the weight of the voyage. The men fare no better. 

Mutiny has threatened, the lash has been wielded. Were it not for the Second Mates and Quartermaster’s firm hand, we might have descended into anarchy already. Yet rations dwindle, and I dread the day hunger erodes what little order remains.

I do not wish to frighten you, nor to allow your mind to wander into fancies unbefitting. I know you are of strong constitution and welcome the truth from my mind and heart. I will honour this. I also hope you can take what I write and apply it in your own life. I know I am speaking as if I will not return. Truth be told I may not. I will move heaven and high water to but God may have another plan for me and to this, I must submit.

On our passage to Canton, we have endured trials unnumbered. Our cargo, spices, silks, porcelain, tea, has suffered at the hands of pirates, rats, waterlog and careless knots. Our mission to establish trade with the Chinese lies in tatters. If we reach the port at all, it shall be as gaunt madmen bearing meagre wares, begging for entry, not proud ambassadors of King James and the East India Company looking to expand trade.

More than once, our cannons have roared against the night, fire and iron meeting the bodies of the desperate souls who sought to board us, Dutch, Portuguese, Malabar pirates, alike in their hunger. Yet such battles, bloody as they are, belong to the realm of men, and therefore can be understood.

Far worse are the things that haunt the deepest night, the ghosts, the demons, the whispers in the dark that seek not our gold, but our very souls. The moon itself upon occasion fears to rise and leaves us in the blackest of nights when the horrors come. I wonder if these are mere trickery of the mind, cast upon the void of our own dread. 

Yet when men cry out in panic and terror, when prayers are whispered in every tongue aboard, when the very air thickens with unseen dread, what am I to believe? In the face of such volatility, uncertainty, complication and ambiguity one cannot help but take up arms, to fire blindly into the fog, hoping to strike down the fears that coil within. 

And so, I have mentioned them already but allow me to introduce my mistresses upon my voyage. Of course, my dearest, not ones of flesh of but of schooling, knowledge and wisdom. Each one born in heaven and hell and all the embodiment of life. ‘Mistress Volatility, Mistress Uncertainty, Miss Complication and Ms Ambiguity.’ They guide, play with, haunt and watch our every step, each one shaping our fate as surely as the winds steer our sails. It’s what we do with their power that makes or breaks us. 

Volatility, the tempestuous mistress in her wild, untamed beauty. Each storm, each battle, each turn of fate drives home that she is there flashing her eyes with unpredictable fire. Her gowns swirl within the crashing waves, constantly shifting, as though caught in a tempest. She is upon these waters and in life, forever changing, kind, soft then ever so cruel. Her hair whips the face, at the body, mind and soul as we navigate within her moods. 

One moment, we sail with her triumphant; the next, the next, she and the sea takes its toll, snapping masts, shattering hulls. I fear, what she offers within conquering the art of vision and direction within her hardship is often earned at too, great a price.

Uncertainty has been my closest companion. Her enigmatic beauty, her whispers are heard in the whispers of men, in mutiny as its grow louder. She is draped in the mists, in the shadows sometimes visible, sometimes hidden, obscured, veiled and just out of reach. She seduces and teases but never reveals. Her dark shifting hue that blends into the fog and twilight, into the liminal spaces we exist in. One has grown accustomed to always seeking her, in trying to understand what she is, wants and needs. Making decisions time and time again whist the stories, reasons and potential consequences are bathed in the cloak of her uncertainty can be tiresome. 

The men murmured and then shouted of abandoning course, of turning to St. Mary’s in Madagascar to live among the pirate brethren. With our captain lost to brandy and the strange roots he chews; the burden of command fell and still falls upon me. How does one lead amidst shifting allegiances? How does one sentence a friend to death to maintain order? The weight of such choices gnaws at my soul. Do you recall Corporal Noggs? Quiet, steady, always at his post? He is gone. Whether by accident, despair, or murder, none can say. His absence feeds the growing superstition aboard. Fear spreads like plague, and in its wake, reason falters. 

The place was thick with an unspoken dread. Then came the sickness. One by one, the men fell to fever. Was it the water? A curse? A punishment from some unseen force? None can say, and in the void of answers, the mind conjures demons.

The men still curse our figurehead, blaming her weathered face for our misfortunes. To prevent unrest, I have ordered her shrouded in canvas, though I dare not cast her overboard. Superstition runs deep, and deeper still after we came upon the silent island. We sought fresh water and respite yet found only the remnants of lives abandoned in haste, food left uneaten; tools cast aside mid-task.

Things that fill spaces, the superstitions, the dogmatic beliefs the second guesses, the rumours, the disorientating calls of wanting to know always beckon. We sail into the unknown, to the dangers and rewards that can blind men. She knows sailors, men and women, their children, and knows we are addicted to her essence for she is like them, waiting for us to all be embroidered into the fabric of life.

And so, to Complexity, the alluring scholarly mistress of the four who beckons one to master clarity in her confusion. She waits in the wings of every choice, conjuring patterns to be recognised and to be broken down. Do I stand and fight when a ship looms upon the horizon? Do I flee? Do I gamble with coin and bribe when force will not avail? War, diplomacy, survival, none of these are simple, and none leave the soul unscathed. I always try to be like you, sophisticated, to investigate the intricate layers of the situation, of life and the task at hand.

However, I hear her laugh as she holds the maps and mazes, the riddles and cyphers. She is cryptic and blatant; she unlocks secrets but does not share all. I am, we are captivated and bewildered in her conflicting prose. She is unfathomable and unexplainable but represents the intricate dance we all must master as we navigate our own seas.

And then, there is ambiguity, perhaps the cruellest mistress of all at times. For she is a ghostly figure, draped in mists, always in the shadows. She is unsettling, wondrous, alluring. Her eyes glimmer a haunting gleam forever holding their secrets. Ambiguity speaks in riddles and rhymes, promises heaven and can deliver utter disappointment. She is known and unknown, mysterious and appears not as true motives or actions. She demands agility, one to be quick witted and quick to thought and action. 

And now, my dearest, the greatest revelation of all strikes me. Our ship—Vucalis—her very name bears within it the mark my, our, mistresses, and perhaps of all of our fate: V.U.C.A.

This I must posit, is the landscape of my mind and if I dare say, life. Tis what I am sharing with you in hope you take these instances, these circumstances to navigate on your own journey.

These are the oceans upon which we all sail, seeking to transcend the thresholds, intermediates and transitory spaces we are bound to between birth and death, between death and reaching the almighty.

The Captain spoke truly, I understand now. This voyage, like life is a cipher, an endless riddle. How does one navigate the unknowable? How does one find meaning in chaos? Perhaps there is no answer. Perhaps the cipher was never meant to be solved.  I am struck that we are all players within some form theatre devised of ancient wisdom. Forgive me, my senses are heightened. 

However, perhaps if we know where we are, and what power or domain we are in, we might stand a better chance to navigate the seven seas of life. Perhaps my dearest Anne, there is no answer, yet the act of seeking is its own form, meaning. It seems so profound and yet meaningless. 

Perhaps Vucalis is not meant to find safe harbour, nor are we meant to decipher the riddles of this voyage. This cipher is not meant to be solved, only lived. And so, now, I search not for answers, but simply to search and to learn. Perhaps that is enough to return, to let go of the fears, of the preconceived notions and I will find a freedom in this madness? 

I know that even if it appears that our ship, our souls seem yet again are lost, my heart is not. No matter the storms, the shadows, the ghosts that call in the night, I know where I am anchored. 

I know where I belong. 

And if I do not return, my love, know that you were my truest harbour.

Yours forever, and a day, as you always dearly say.

Your humble servant,

Elias