Futures
2050 Version 1.7
We will spend the rest of our time at sea. It was Victor’s idea. He was at a loss about what to do next. His work at the Poverty Eradication Organisation has become irrelevant. The Earth is now, more or less, a fair and benevolent place to be for pretty much everyone who lives on it. All ecosystems are protected. Although the climate has already been significantly altered by previous generations, greenhouse gas emissions are now strictly controlled and weather systems have stabilised.
What changed the world in the end was not good intentions, but a huge collective shock to the system. Shortly after my thirty-second birthday, scientists announced that a massive asteroid was on a collision course with our planet. It was certain. They didn’t know if all life would be immediately wiped out, but they knew it would be a colossal disaster, similar to the one that killed the dinosaurs. It was going to strike on February 15, 2052, which gave us nearly seven years to prepare. The people of the planet were all unexpectedly placed on death row and the result of knowing this fact surprised everyone.
At first of course, people were desperate and angry. Displays of tears or screaming in public places were not uncommon. Many claimed that the astronomers had to be wrong and invented implausible counter-theories based on nothing but desperation. Next were the frenzied attempts to find a solution. Scientists were given more money than ever before in history, but the problem proved impenetrable. Many ideas came forward, but not one was remotely feasible. The consequences of attempting to destroy the asteroid were likely to be just as lethal as allowing the collision to happen.
It was after about three months that the most unpredictable repercussion of the alarming news started to become apparent. Many people started to face reality. They understood that they probably didn’t have much time left in this world and they wanted to make the most of it. Families and friends came together and mended petty rifts. Trivial grievances were forgotten. The first big social change that happened was that the ultra-rich started to give away huge amounts of money. Bosses gave their workers raises and let them take extra holidays. Many people quit their jobs to follow artistic dreams or volunteer for charities.
The people of Earth realised at last that we’re all in this together, and over the next few years an incredible, new world emerged where everyone had enough food, warmth and shelter, borders were opened and government bodies generally that decided their job was actually to serve their citizens for the remaining years. In Australia, the working week was shortened to thirty hours and everyone who wanted to work did. Most people did. Many of the world’s prisons granted amnesty to non-violent offenders. Soldiers went AWOL and conflicts ceased. What really astonished me was the way that most people put greater effort into caring for our doomed environment. No-one wanted to spend their last years next to a coal mine or a dirty river. Instead of gadgets, mansions, fashionable clothes or expensive furniture, people discovered that what they really wanted was uncontaminated air, clean water and healthy forests.
It often blew my mind to think that we could have done all these things years ago. Why did it take the end of the world to make people wake up? Was it a last-ditch effort in case the scientists were wrong, or did the impending Armageddon actually help people to understand what was important in life? Those first years were a confusing time for me. My parents had spent decades dreaming about and working towards the world that was actually now manifesting itself in reality, and yet we all knew it could not last.
I was born in 2013 in the Murwillumbah Birthing Centre in New South Wales, Australia to environmental activists. Papà was Italian, Mamma was Australian and I had no siblings. My parents had spent about fifteen years sailing around the world and fighting to save it, like green-caped crusaders, but my mother gave it all up to take care of me, as well as her garden. I was not planned, but they loved me anyway. My first memory is of my parents teaching me to swim in a cool, rocky waterhole surrounded by rainforest.
I grew up in a little house in a village in northern New South Wales, in a kind of bubble of spirituality and so-called “awareness”, while the world around us strolled down its path of destruction. My mother and I thought we could change this path by opening our third eyes, living our truths and sharing love and compassion. My father thought he could rescue the future by venturing into the heart of the problem, using his many skills to create solutions. We were all wrong. It turned out that the only thing that could really change the world was the deadly planetoid hurtling towards us. The direction society was now headed was my parents’ dream finally being realised, but the direction the asteroid was headed had turned it into a nightmare. Sometimes, like many people, I refused to believe the end would come, and I imagined a miraculous future where the asteroid missed us and the Earth continued to thrive in this peaceful, new reality. Mostly however, I was well aware of the shadow of death which loomed over our fresh utopia.
I’d always been waiting for my big adventure to start, but this was not quite how I’d pictured it. Although my life had been privileged and close to perfect, I’d always imagined that there would be something more: that some day I would do something meaningful and important. What this mysterious achievement might be has eluded me, and now I understand that this was ridiculous vanity. I am destined to die and be forgotten like everybody else.
In my teenage years, mostly unnoticed by me, the power of the corporations increased, the vision of the governments decreased, the gap between rich and poor widened, the options for ordinary people narrowed and human greed seemed set to ruin everything. Still, things inside my bubble were quite different. My father went sailing for half of each year and brought me back presents from distant countries. My mother took me to meditation classes and deep ecology workshops, and I believed I was a enlightened young woman. The elders taught me how to care for Country. I didn’t step on ants, I sent my baby-sitting money to an African child and I prayed for world peace. My mother organised vigils and planted fruit trees. Life was generally tranquil and fulfilled.
I remember the moment, near the end of my school days, when it hit me like a hammer, that I could actually leave this place. I had finished meditating in my small bedroom, as I did every morning. I inhaled deeply, opened my eyes slowly and saw on the opposite wall the Mayan calendar Papà had brought back from Mexico. I’d always liked it, but never really examined it closely before. Now the face in the middle drew me in, the eyes locked mine and the surrounding arrows seemed to shoot away from the wall, whiz by my head and out into the world: north; east; south; west.
Travelling was always something my father did, while my mother and I stayed at home. I’d always been content here, but the idea that I could explore different realities suddenly thrilled me as never before. I could go anywhere, do anything, see the same wonders of the world that my father saw! I couldn’t afford a ticket at that moment, but as a first step I could leave the village and study in a university somewhere else, and so that is what I did. I graduated from school a few months later and chose the biggest city available to me. Mamma and Papà helped me carry my luggage onto the train and hugged me goodbye. My mother acted serene, but I could see the slight worried creasing around her eyes. My father was nervous about the doors closing before they could leave the train, but he stayed on the platform waving until I could not see him any more.
In Sydney I studied Arts as a way of delaying any binding decisions. Things were very different outside the bubble. People were more manic, despairing and generally drank a lot more wine. I rode a bicycle to uni and the traffic was terrifying. Scraping money together became a major preoccupation. I washed dishes in a café, went to pubs and only meditated about twice a week. Life in the city was definitely more stimulating, though not always in a good way. I met a boy but it didn’t work out; he was too depressed. I decided to be a psychologist. I moved into a town-house with three other psych students. When we weren’t going to parties we studied together and somehow, after four years, I passed my degree.
By this time I’d had enough of books and wanted to go somewhere new, so I decided to search for work instead of continuing with post graduate studies. It wasn’t so easy to find a job, and I had to stay at the café for another six months before finally landing a position as a research assistant in Brisbane. The location was not exactly exotic for me, but by then I was just grateful to be employed.
I became a career girl, making decent money. I put a lot of energy into my work, which was mostly satisfying. I bought a motorbike to get around and joined a sailing club to meet people. Life was a little calmer here than in Sydney, and there were more trees in the suburbs. I meditated about every second day. After a while I had enough money to buy an old thirteen-metre ketch, which I adored. I worked diligently to make it seaworthy and sailed in Moreton Bay or Tweed Heads most weekends. It was all pleasant, but I still had in the back of my mind the idea that one day I would set out on a great adventure and find a life that was foreign and fabulous.
The next major event in my life was meeting Victor, a lawyer in my sailing club. Everything about our relationship was easy, from our first conversation to our holiday sailing up the Queensland coast to buying a small flat together. Of course we had occasional arguments and misunderstandings, but I never, for even one second, doubted that this was the man I wanted to be with forever. It was as if we had known each other intimately from the very beginning, and being together was always fun, even when we were just grocery shopping or watching television.
In the meantime, I progressed in my career and found a job as a clinical psychologist without having to go back to university. There was a lot of work now. While our lives were blessed, the world seemed to be deteriorating around us and people in general were not coping well. The suicide rate was rising every year. And though the majority of people could no longer afford therapy, the wealthy few had plenty of money and time to spend on such things. I devoted my life to these people, and in some way believed that by chasing the dream of inner peace, for my clients and myself, everything would turn out fine in the end. I cut down drinking and resumed daily meditation.
When I heard the news about the asteroid coming, after crying for a day or so, I continued to work at the clinic, for the sake of my patients and myself. After we all dealt with the initial trauma, we had to process the harrowing reality that the world had begun to heal itself just as it was about to end. It was hard to let go of the frustration that society’s problems could only be solved by the imminent demise of that society, but we had no choice. It took around three years for me to completely acknowledge the facts and to accept this life as normal and mostly better than it had ever been before. There was now a true sense of sharing and community in the world, and caring about strangers had become a general tendency. And probably for the first time in human history, there was genuine equality for all, as it had become brutally clear that everybody was exactly the same to the asteroid. As wealth was redistributed and I lowered my fees, the kinds of people who could afford my services became far more varied and interesting.
We’ve had five years of knowing and the majority of my clients have come to terms with our situation. I don’t believe I’m helping much any more. Anyone who cannot accept our reality now is unlikely to change in the next two years. I’ve decided I can let go of work and run away to sea with Victor. Of course no-one will buy our flat at this stage, but we can get a little money from tenants and we will have enough to keep us going for a couple of years, providing we can catch some fish. We can explore Pacific islands that we’ve never seen before, and bask in ocean sunsets and starry nights. Why not? It is an idea that has been in my mind since I bought the boat and now seems like the perfect time. Maybe this will be my big adventure at last.
After weeks of planning, explanations and tears, it’s hard to believe that now it is actually happening. We are on board with all our remaining possessions in their assigned places, and ready for sea. This is it. Papà helps us throw off our lines and we motor out of the Scarborough Marina. We wave to the little group on the quayside. Mamma is so distraught I cannot look at her. I am not exactly composed myself, and neither is Victor. The thrill of the unknown plucks at me, but at this moment it is smothered by an aching sense of loss. Victor hugs me.
“Remember we can come back any time,” he says. “We don’t have to sail until the end.”
I nod my head, but the idea that we are able to return does not seem real for some reason.
Suddenly Victor grabs the wheel and spins it hard around, as he notices we are on a collision course with a yacht under sail. “Not such a good start to the trip,” I observe. This is clearly not the right time for hugging. We motor carefully through the traffic across the bay and out through the north-east passage. As we pass the heads we get busy setting and trimming sails, checking the chart and now it really sinks in that we’re on our way to New Caledonia! We set our course directly towards the island and push steadily along at about five knots. The sky and sea are dazzling, but there is a touch of the waning winter in the light south-easterly breeze. This is freedom! I hope that, as predicted, the weather holds for at least a few days.
I steer for a couple of hours, before handing over the wheel to Victor. We do have an autopilot, but we’re too excited, at this early stage, to let the machine have all the fun. With Victor at the helm, humming along to our music player, I lie on the bow to drink in the sun and the occasional cool, salty splashes. As we sweep gently and repetitively over the swell it becomes impossible for me to stay awake and I drift into floating dreams.
When I open my eyes the autopilot is in control and I hear Victor clinking away in the galley. The sun is close to the horizon. I blink and stretch myself awake. My sweet man emerges from the hatch with an inviting tray of snacks and sparkling wine.
“I think we should celebrate the first evening of our new life.”
As the sun sinks into the waves, we indulge ourselves for the last time. From now on we will have to ration our provisions sensibly, but this evening is all about silky cheese, buttery bubbles and pink clouds. Victor glows in the golden light, and I feel the same.
Sailing is not all about sunsets though, and when the bottle is empty and the stars come out, it’s time to get to work. The wind drops completely, so we start the engine and strike the sails. The navigation lights are already on and we check our position and update the log. I volunteer to do the first watch, since I’ve been sleeping much of the afternoon. Victor kisses me goodnight and descends into the dark cabin. I switch to manual steering to give me something to do and keep me alert. The temperature drops and I put my jacket on. Despite my long nap, I soon start yawning. I suppose it’s the movement of the boat. The four-hour watch stretches out in front of me and I begin to wonder if spending our last two years in this way was really such a brilliant plan.
This train of thought is forgotten in the next second, as the first moonbeams appear on the horizon. Enormous and orange, one day past being full, the moon rises incrementally and its reflection slowly bleeds apart and ripples toward me. After some moments I realise I have stopped breathing. I inhale deeply and check the surroundings. There are no other lights around, so I return my gaze to the moon, as it gradually transforms from orange to yellow to white and ascends past the stars. There is something about the moonlight path in the almost calm sea which seems like the essence of beauty to me. The scene eases my restless mind, and the rest of the night passes peacefully.
By the next day, we already begin to establish rhythms and routines. We agree on our watch schedule and time advances slowly past our little chores and habits. As well as the sailing, navigating and boat maintenance tasks, we take photos and send our first message home to keep our friends and family informed of our progress. Victor tries a few different types of fishing tackles and gear but cannot catch anything. The wind is now coming from the west but the breeze is so light that we are barely moving. We try our best to sail throughout the day, but by the evening we have to start the engine again.
As night progresses, the wind swings around behind us and begins to pick up. When I wake Victor for his watch the breeze becomes strong enough for sailing, so when he appears on deck we set the jib and mainsail together before I gladly retire to our bunk and the pleasure of sleep.
It must have been longer, but it feels as if I have only just lost consciousness when I’m woken again by nearly being thrown out of bed. From the violent pitching and noise I guess we are now in the middle of a storm. I swing my feet to the floor and grab the handrail tightly. My wet-weather gear is swaying on a hook near the door but putting it on is no easy feat in the midst of this chaos. I have to lie on the bunk to get my feet safely through the holes. When I’m finally dressed, I climb the stairs and open the hatch.
It flings out of my hand, smashes back and I’m immediately blinded by my hair and the rain. I claw myself up on deck and battle against the wind to close the hatch. The jib is already furled and Victor is struggling to bring down the mainsail as it flogs around in the turbulent air. He sees me and yells something inaudible, but I understand and take control of the halyard while he stands on top of the cockpit and tries to gather the sail safely down. A large wave crashes over the boat and the line rips out of my hand. Victor clings to the boom and under the bellowing wind I think I hear a tearing sound. I hope I’m wrong. Finally the sail comes crashing down, and Victor stuffs it into the bag as best he can.
Sweating under my soaking gear, I sheet the mizzen boom all the way in and we steer away from the wind to motor slowly north. The boat flies off the waves and slams back down with shuddering force, again and again and again. I guess there won’t be much sleep tonight. There is not much time for thinking, but I can’t help wondering what damage has already been sustained by our little ketch. And if we will survive through the night. Another wave drenches everything, and I gasp as cold water gushes down my neck and chest. Victor checks the electronics and switches off unnecessary devices. We look at each other, but there is really not much to say or do at this point. All we can hope for is to ride it out. We spend the next two hours clutching for balance and staring into the storm.
Eventually it passes, as all things do. We are too wet and tired to go below, so we take turns dozing in the cockpit until finally the sun returns. I shiver uncontrollably as I step out of my wet-weather gear and lay it on deck to dry. Next time I will remember to make sure the fasteners are properly secured. After a quick shower and change of clothes we are ready to inspect the damage. Clearly the engine is still working, as we have been chugging along all night. The electronics all survived, but there is, as I suspected, a large tear near the head of the mainsail. We decide to hoist it to let it dry before we attempt to fix it.
The morning is clear and sunny with a gentle southerly breeze. The swell is decreasing. We sheet out and sail along steadily while we catch up on sleep. Around lunch time we bring down the mainsail and find the repair kit. It seems as if the damage is too much for tape alone, so I make some not-very-skilled stitches before applying tape to both sides. Victor looks dubiously at my work, but he knows he could not do better himself. We hoist the sail again, and make some lunch. Throughout the afternoon the wind increases again and there is frequent nervous squinting at the masthead, but the repair holds.
The high point of the day comes in the late afternoon, as Victor catches our first fish. It flops around on deck and he flushes with pride like a little boy. It’s a flathead just big enough for our dinner. While he scales it, I write a message about the fish and the storm for home, smoothing out the details. I attempt to convey drama rather than fear, although I’m sure Mamma will be a little anxious. Thinking about what could have happened, I thank the universe that our Satcom System still functions and we can stay in contact with our families. It’s still hard to fathom that, in all probability, we will never see them again.
As the light starts to fade, the wind strengthens until it reaches nearly thirty knots. We drop the mainsail and sail with only a reefed mizzen. All Victor and I can talk about is whether there will be another storm tonight. The low pressure system is supposed to move away from us, so it should not happen, although the same could be said for last night. Another stunning sunset brings the sky through an array of colours, but we are too preoccupied to appreciate the spectacle. We fly along before the wind, and despite my trepidation, at least I feel alive. The world may be destined for destruction but it is still magnificent, and maybe we won’t survive this adventure but at least we are experiencing it.
It is my watch, but Victor is too charged to sleep. We are sailing faster than our little boat has ever moved before. The wind in the rigging makes an eerie noise, but the creaking sounds of the hull frighten us more. As we feared, after an hour or so, rain clouds appear on the radar. It is too dark to see them in the sky. We alter course to the west to try to avoid the weather. With a breaching wind, we set the mainsail and the jib and race along even faster. The ketch heels perilously so we ease the sheets and reef in the sails more. We lose just enough angle and speed to feel balanced. If the wind doesn’t change, this course will be fine. The creaking has stopped. Victor is finally convinced to go below and get some rest.
As we skim over the swell, I hear regular splashes on both sides of the boat. It sounds like dolphins but I can’t see them as the sky has turned cloudy and black. Although I am all alone on the deck of this vessel flying through the night, I can sense the life all around me. I know birds fly above me, fish swim below and Victor sleeps in the cabin. We are all together, each performing our part in the planet’s epic production. Soon the curtain will fall and it will all be finished. Maybe it will rise again on an entirely different kind of show, or maybe it will actually be the end. I understand now that for me it really doesn’t matter. I have such a small role and whether I die now or in two years’ time, or even if I somehow survive, it will all be the same in the big picture of life.
The rainy area on the radar increases and I realise that we cannot avoid passing through the edge of the storm. Lightning flashes in the distance. I look up at the mainsail, and the masthead light shows the sail repair tape flapping wildly on one side. As I watch, it rips away into the blackness. There is nothing I can do but maintain our course and wait to see what happens. I put on my wet-weather gear, making sure the zips are all the way up and the Velcro tight. The wind stays steady for a while, then becomes gusty and changeable. The sails luff then fill again. I can’t decide if it is better to keep them up or drop them and try to motor around the weather. I still have the notion that nothing I do will make any difference.
After several minutes of indecision I goad myself into action. I turn on the engine and take down the sails while I still can. The rain begins, the wind eddies around and the sky streaks with lightning. An ear-splitting thunderclap bursts in my ears. That must have been close. Outside, I can’t see a thing, and the radar is a mess of rain-clouds and reflections. The boat rolls heavily and the scary, creaking noises resume. Through all of this, the thought keeps repeating itself in my mind that none of it matters. Nonetheless, I dutifully perform all the necessary checks and operations that are possible in these circumstances.
The hatch opens and Victor climbs on deck, suited up and ready for action. As he dogs the handles closed, the air suddenly explodes with noise, light and electricity. Lightning strike! All the boat’s screens and lights go black. The engine stops. We grab each other. Our skin tingles and our ears ring, but we are alive. “It’s okay. It’s not important,” I tell Victor.
“What are you talking about? Are you all right?” he asks, bewildered.
I can’t explain right now, so I shake my head. “Sorry. I’m fine. I guess I’m a bit shocked. What are we going to do?” We are bobbing around in a storm without control and only a small magnetic compass to tell us where we are. “Better set some sails, I guess,” he says, grimly.
We set the jib and the mizzen in the light of our head torches. We stay on a westerly course as much as we are able. At least moving forward the boat is not totally at the mercy of the waves. Victor tries to get the engine going and I try changing fuses, but it seems as if everything is fried. Nothing works. Now what? We could activate the Emergency Position Reporter, but the storm will probably be over before anyone gets here. I am also reluctant to put anyone else in danger when I am so indifferent about my own fate. However there is Victor to consider, of course.
As if he were reading my mind, he says, “I think we’ll be okay. I don’t want to bring anyone else into this storm. If we can keep sailing round the edge I reckon we’ll make it. Are you all right with that?”
“Yeah. Actually I’m really okay with whatever happens. I don’t want to be saved. If we die now or two years from now, it doesn’t make any difference to me. I’ve had a good life. I found you. There doesn’t seem to be much to be achieved by clinging on to this existence. What if we just keep sailing and see where we end up?”
He appears surprised, but not to the extent I expected. He holds my hand, looks in my eyes and nods slowly. “Right. Let’s see what happens. That’s what makes it a real adventure, I guess.”
So we continue west through the edge of the storm. The thunder and lightning gradually get farther away. The rain stops and the wind decreases. We are spent. We know we are a long way from land, and in the spirit of our new passive approach to life, we both go to our cabin to sleep. It has been a few days since I lay next to Victor, and his big, warm body instantly relaxes me. Even in the middle of the ocean on the rim of a storm in a crippled boat, this bunk feels like home. I fall asleep more quickly than usual.
We sleep for a long time and when we wake the boat is almost motionless. A cloudless sky shines through the portholes. I smile at Victor and we stay in bed much longer, cuddling, stretching and dozing some more. Eventually we make it on deck to a see a brilliant, windless day and a glassy sea. A flying fish breaks the surface and glitters in the sun. It reminds me of a dragonfly. The sails are still up, limp, torn and useless except for creating shade. We leave them as they are and make coffee. “I wonder where we are,” says Victor, as we sit holding our cups with our legs dangling over the hull. There is no way of knowing at this point. In every direction all I can see is water. Maybe if the stars come out tonight we could work it out. Or we could try our rusty sextant skills at noon or sunset. At the moment I just want to drink my coffee and maybe later try to catch a fish for breakfast. I feel so free. It is sad to know it won’t last, but right now everything seems perfect. I face Victor. “It doesn’t matter where we are. We’re here. We made it.” He looks doubtful.
“I suppose so. It would be nice to see New Caledonia though, don’t you think?”
“Well, we can try. But we’ll have to wait for some wind first. How about we do some fishing?” I suggest brightly.
We get out the tackle, attach lures and throw in our lines, sitting in the shade of the sail. The sea is so still I begin to doubt my memory. Was it really only last night we sailed through that storm? Another flying fish skims along the surface in the distance. Breakfast must be down there somewhere. Sun rays penetrate the clear, blue water, but all I can see are tiny particles of algae. We sit there for hours, talking about old friends, watching the ocean and occasionally slipping into semi-trance states. All the while there are no more signs of fish and never even the slightest hint of breeze. I’m getting hungry so I give up on the idea of trout for breakfast and heat up a can of baked beans.
Victor also packs up his gear, and shares the can with me. He is thoughtful as he eats, and afterwards says:
“I think we may have lost our minds. Don’t worry, I’m with you. I don’t want to be rescued either. I want to keep sailing as long as we can, by ourselves. And I’m resigned that we might not make it. But I think other people would say we’re crazy. We’re abandoning our families and we’re giving up all the other good things we could be doing with the last years of our lives. I don’t understand why I want to follow you down this path, but I actually do. It feels good to let go of everything. We literally have to go where the wind takes us and it might take us nowhere.”
“Yes! That’s it! Thank-you Victor,” I say, beaming. “I’ve got an idea. How about we throw the Emergency Position Reporter overboard!”
“We can’t. It will automatically transmit when it hits the water.”
“Oh. Of course. Can we break it?”
“I don’t know. Shall we try?” I’m excited! I find the tool kit and Victor gets the EPR. We take apart as many components as we can, then Victor smashes the inside with a hammer. Just as I’m thinking this may not be such a good idea, there is a spark and a noise like a whip crack, and bits of metal and plastic shoot off in every direction. Miraculously, we both escape injury. We look at each other, a little amazed at our own stupidity and giggle like teenagers. As we clean up the mess, I understand that this is the big adventure. No-one can save us, no-one can talk to us and our fate depends totally on the wind and the waves. We are free.
Victor throws his fishing line out again, and I take photos. It is very unlikely anyone else will ever see these pictures, but the beauty of the water bewitches me. Reflecting the intense blue of the sky, it undulates gently but is completely unbroken by even the tiniest ripple. When I have captured every angle I can, I lie beside Victor and imagine I’m a baby. My mother rocks me in a cot and I can hear the occasional lapping of my father in a bath in the next room. The air is still, humid, warm. I close my eyes and wait for the breeze.
This is a chapter of my book “Futures”, which investigates different versions of life in 2050. You can read the next chapter here.
