"What cruel things the sea can do to the mind," he started. I nodded in agreement to the young, weather beaten man sitting next to me, not knowing exactly what he was talking about or where he was going with it. I, myself, know nothing of the sea or its effects on the mind. Ordinarily I would ignore such barroom chatter, but sometimes a person needs to be heard.

"You see," he began abruptly, "I'd been at sea for just under a year and twice I'd almost lost my head." I nodded politely, again, and responded with a grunt typical of a man's show of interest in a story. "There are times when all you have to do is think, to stare out at the endless water and think. Some might say that thinking is a good thing, but not when it is all you have to do. The mind needs diversion every now and then. When all you have to do is think, your mind goes from bad to worse, the thoughts grow more evil as they run and twist into dark corridors and take away your last vestiges of sanity."

He let out a sigh and smirked as though he remembered an old acquaintance he was fond of. I wondered how long it would be before he lost his mind and would begin bludgeoning me with his barstool or the nearest blunt object. The people in the bar would just stare in disbelief, not knowing if they were seeing something real. Some of them would rub their eyes, others would scream. Still, you never know about these people that have something to say. One can never be too careful. I was curious, though, what all he had gone through, what terrible thoughts he had manifested, what he had been before he had become this disillusioned creature.

"People will always say they love the sea, that it's so calming and easy to relax by. But when you live there, when you have that serenity always about you, it becomes monotony, it becomes as crazed as any city. Once you realize you've been broken by the sea, that's when the madness sets in." He paused, looked down at his beer, now nothing more than a last warm swallow, and drank it. "That's when the madness sets in."

I thought of buying him another beer because sometimes heavy-hearted people need someone to buy them a beer. I decided against it, fearing it may be interpreted as a sign of companionship that would ultimately solicit a whole life's story instead of a time passed. He relieved me of the burden by gesturing to the bartender, who responded with a move to the tap with an empty glass. He stared forward so I did the same, as though we were strangers that had never spoken. I wanted to look over, to analyze the face for tragedy, but I didn't. I didn't because it might bring more of a story I was not certain whether or not I wanted to hear.

"You don't recognize the lunacy because it is slow made," he said without my prodding. Now I looked over, realizing I would hear what he had to say one way or the other. "You can't see it until it is upon you, covering you like an invisible vine, entwining its madness around you, through you. Then it becomes you and there is no difference between you and it and you're stripped from the you you once were. Nothing is left but crazed eyes and a quick tongue. Your heart moves like a serpent, winding into evil apple trees beckoning all innocents near to eat your forbidden fruit.

"Even the sanest of people go mad. I found myself thinking at times of different ways to bomb the ship, or whacking some foreigner in the head with a hammer, or jumping overboard and feed myself to the sharks. I never did any of these things, though. Somehow I was always able to bring myself back to the grey world of sanity."

Here is the violence, I thought, here is the dark side of this man that is lying dormant, waiting around to "whack" me in the head with something. I made no move to suggest an assault, lest it be misinterpreted and the serpent he spoke of reveal its ugly head. I was trapped, entwined into the tale whether or not I wanted to be. I would listen now for my own survival.

"Do you know what I did to finally keep myself a little on the sane side?" He looked over and finally made eye contact with me. For sure I was trapped now. I lifted my eyebrows while curling the sides of my mouth downward to imply that I was vaguely curious as to what it could be.

"Well, let me tell you," he continued, as I knew he would, "I would keep a tray of grass in my room. A legitimate tray of grass. We were in a port in some dingy Mexican town and I found myself lying on the grass watching the sunset one evening. Just sprawled out in the grass like a dog, a beaten dog. It was a helluva day, helluva day and I was sure to be bound for the nut house that day. I spent the first half of my day painting and crying. I'm not ashamed to say I cry like most men now that I've had something to cry about.

"Just like pops used to say, 'I'll give you somethin' to cry about you little nigger. You'll know pain when I'm through whipping your ass until you bleed.' He wasn't a smart man, but he loved us all in between the drinking spells. Anyway, there I was in Mexico, in a grimy port town, in this little spot of Heaven. It's not many ports that have tufts of grass lying about. And there I was, staring up at the sunset, taking in the whole scene and loving it.

"I realized that I was pulling the blades of grass and throwing them above me, throwing them into the light wind that was blowing. I knew that when I got up I'd be all itchy, but for a moment it was absolute bliss, for a moment it was all the happy memories and still moments when reality slips away in a good way and you are at peace with the world. The tiny blades reaching through my clothes giving me tiny pricks on my back, oh, it was like I was a kid again.

"It's one of those pleasures that we have all taken for granted, like the crunch of snow under your boots or the way sand shapes itself between your toes at the beach. People never stop to think of what a pleasure it is to sit in the grass, they always expect it to be there, and then when you don't have it, you can appreciate it. So as an homage to my appreciation for grass, I bought a kitty litter tray and filled it with good soil and then laid a square of grass it in.

"Of course, some of them thought I was crazy, but every time I got to missing the true feel of earth, I could take my shoes off and stand firmly on the ground. A small consolation in that prison, but worth all the crap I had to go through to keep it up. I kept it in my favorite corner of the cabin.

"You see, 'coz, there are times when you don't feel like much of a man because they treat you lower than a dog and that can take its toll after a while. You get to believing that you're a piece of shit. And sometimes the only thing that makes you feel like a man again, the only thing that restores the inside of you, is the endless tears you shed on many a lonely night. Men aren't supposed to cry, but they do, they all do when they're hid away, when they've tucked themselves into a tiny corner where no one will see them.

"Of course, you think, oh, that would restore everything alright then, wouldn't it? But that would be too easy, that would be far too easy. Because then, the next day when you got to look at the water again, you begin to think that you're not much of a man for crying because men aren't supposed to cry. But they do. That's why there's no shame in me saying that I've cried because I think I earned it. 'I'll give you something to cry about.'"

He laughed mockingly at himself, or maybe at his good father who had brought him up on opinions of his own. This time I needed a beer, but thought it was best to maybe use this as my chance to get away. Off to the office, I could say, but there'd be no office. Have to get back home, but that might not be the best thing to say either. It was solved when he lifted his index finger slightly into the air above his beer and then pointed in my direction, indicating to the bartender that he was getting a beer for the thirsty listener.

"The tray of grass was my little piece of sanity. After a long distance fight with my girl, I even bought a few periwinkles to put around the side of the tray so I could stand in the middle. I had my own little garden. I called it my garden of sanity, but as I said, it was no bigger than a kitty litter box."

My beer arrived at the beginning of an uncomfortable silence, allowing me an excuse to not break it, not wanting to. "What made you go crazy?" I heard some voice asking and shocked to discover it was my own. Damnable mouth always speaking out of turn. I should have the god-forsaken tongue cut out one day and I will if it ever really gets me into trouble. I'll walk around a mute, slobbering nonsensical words and people will give me quarters on the street to make me go away.

"The first time it was slow coming, as I said, it's always slow coming. Lunacy spawned from isolation moving like thick molasses. I got on board the ship three days before Mardi Gras and I ain't never missed a Mardi Gras before and we sailed to Rio Haina in the Dominican Republic. We passed the city, it seemed, just as the parade was turning off Canal Street headin' towards the Convention Center. It may have only taken about fifteen or twenty minutes to get passed the heart of New Orleans, but it felt as though it was fifteen or twenty years.

"I been in this relationship with this girl and I liked her, still do now, and, as we passed the Quarter heading to Algiers Point to make the bend, standing on the deck looking at the city all lit up in night, I thought of every single damned place we'd ever gone. It hurt. I cried a little bit there, but not too much because I didn't want the others to see and think I was a sissy. Men aren't supposed to cry, you know.

"Well, I was the only person on the ship that spoke English. As a first language. Most of them were Spanish speakers or Greek. That right there spells isolation 'cause I didn't speak either, still don't. The whole trip down to this port, Rio Haina, they keep askin' if I'm going into town for puta, that's a whore in Spanish. I'm not because I made a promise and I got a girl, but they don't understand that much because Latino people think it's their right to have a bit on the side. Immoral bastards.

"We get there a few days later, hang around in an anchorage for a few days more, and then once we get into the port, it's a cesspool. Like nothing you'd ever see here. The city itself is like one exposed sewer, like the canals when they flood and leave the mess all over the road. And all them dirty little monkeys; they all want to be your friend 'cause you're a gringo. That's Spanish for whitey. See they love the American, but they'd no sooner love you than knock you over the head with something to steal your Nikes.

"I had this one guy that wanted to take me to dinner to meet his sister and cousin, both single, in case I'd be interested in one of them. 'They beautiful, okay Joe.' Okay Joe, like a damned Chinese kid in those horrible Vietnam movies. They speak Spanish there, by the way, so I was still at a loss. He was hopin' I'd fall in love with one of his dirty relatives and bring 'em to the home of the free and the land of the brave. Whatever, the point of it is that I didn't have any friends on the ship, didn't know who to trust and was scared shitless of the port just from the looks of it. No one on board ever made a move to be my friend, so I thought they didn't like me.

"I locked myself up in my room at night and just stayed there. Here's the part where I finally went a little loony. We leave this shithouse and head to Trinidad, not much better than there because we were in some industrial place. At least they speak English, right? Anyway, as we sit in anchorage for two or three weeks, we have to begin rationing water 'cause the ship is running low on water; we only get an hour to shower and all else. All that water in the middle of the Caribbean and not a fucking drop on the ship. To beat that, we start running out of food and eat roast and rotten potatoes for eight days straight.

"Now, had I been smart, I wouldn't have left my stereo at home, nor would I have taken out the books that my mother gave me out of my bag. 'Maybe you'll learn to appreciate the readin' when you don't got no English on that ship.' At nights, with no friends, there I was, in my room, alone, more alone than ever before. I had only my thoughts at night and during the day, only the water and the far off land to think about. And my girl, God, I was always waiting for some news that she'd shacked up with some other guy because he was there and I wasn't.

"We worked every day, Sundays and holidays too. Except Christmas. They didn't give me my holidays because they weren't Greek holidays and on Greek holidays when they took off, I didn't get them because I wasn't Greek. The officers were Greek. One Sunday I decide I'm sick of it, sick of the whole damned thing and I don't show up to work. I sleep-in in the morning, wake up for lunch and then the shit hits the fan. Captain's all in my face yelling about not working and I'm yelling back that he can eat shit and I don't work Sundays for what I'm paid. And on and on.

"I end up back in my cell, pissed off, missing home, missing all things American, missing my girl and even missing the English language. Then I break down, sit in my favorite corner, where the grass is now, and begin crying, mumbling to myself that it'll be okay and all that. Well, you'd think I went off my rocker all the way if I told you some of the things I was thinkin', but sometime that night, a good seven hours later, I was able to pull myself out of it. That's really the reason it's my favorite corner.

"There's nowhere to go when you're on a ship in the middle of the sea but overboard to the sharks. To the watery grave. Walk the plank! So you either kill yourself or adjust. I decided to adjust the best that I could. I wasn't much over it until I finally got back home the first time and brought back a radio and some books. Sounds funny, but it's a different kinda prison altogether, different altogether. You know what it's like to be in prison? You ought to go to sea if you want to find out without committin' a crime. Sure enough, you'll get the feel for it. Sure enough."

A blank expression took over his face, reminding me of how my father used to get when he thought about the war. That vacant, desperately pained look that had no real expression to it but in its intensity. Suddenly he gestured to the bartender for two more, but I, noticing the time, changed the order from two to one with a gesture of my own. "Have to get going," I told him, and I really did. I tapped my watch, more my wrist really, to emphasize that I was on a schedule of some sort. He nodded, he understood.

"I'm Mike, by the way," he said with a certain vacuity about him as he stretched out his hand to greet mine.

"I'm Mike too," I responded with an acute sense of autonomy that convinced even myself and turned, leaving him to the cure for his pain.