Stories at Sea

I’m currently reading China Mieville’s The Scar. It’s good, a nice blend of literate intelligence and the unpronounceable names that mark the sci/fi fantasy shelf. It stands out at this moment, though, because it’s Mieville’s version of a sea adventure. It begins with a ship leaving the biggest city in Mieville’s world of Bas-Lag to a wild, Australia-esque colony on the other side of the world. On the way, pirates hijack the ship and all on board are brought to a gigantic floating city built out of hundreds of old ships. After that, vampires show up, the main characters travel to a land of mosquito people, and a giant beast is raised from the depths (I’m only about halfway through, so I don’t yet know how all of this comes to a head).

The sea quest, or just sea stories in general, are incredibly common. Herman Melville probably jumps to mind first, as does perhaps Joseph Conrad. The Old Man and the Sea counts, and I suppose we can’t forget the Odyssey. There tend to be tropes that surface (har har) in each version; typically there is a symbolic big beast, either chased or chasing. The narratives tend to be episodic, as well, with action and adventure being broken up with passages of travel and characters waxing philosophical about the beautiful terror of the sea or something like that.

There aren’t many stories about airplanes. Obviously our ubiquitous flying machines do not have the history of our sailing ones. Even so, it seems like most of the airplane-relate stories I can think of fall into the realm of science fiction—Nightmare at 20,000 Feet, The Langoliers, Lost—and while many narratives feature airplanes, they typically are solely means of transport, often reduced to a moving line on a map—Indiana Jones—or a means to a finale—Casablanca.

The reasons behind this are pretty obvious. Planes are fast, rarely traveling for more than a day. They are removed from the walking world by altitude and all that is inside is contained. If being at sea exposes you to a great natural power, airplanes coddle you into ignorance of where you actually, physically are. It may be that sea travel is more natural to humans; we have a natural ability to travel through water, but not through air.

However, the sea is the more mysterious, and rationally should be scarier. Note the trope above of big beasts, and their prevalence in sea stories. We have access to such a small part of the ocean—we literally only skim the surface—and all else is inaccessible, blocked to us by darkness, pressure, and lack of oxygen. It’s been said before, but the ocean is the only place that still hold mystery; they are the only place where our imaginations can still swim unfettered.

What does this have to do with this unused blog, that was ostensibly about travel? I don’t know. I’m not even sure why I am thinking about this. Maybe it’s a sort of disappointment with modern travel, how low-stakes it is and it’s lack of mystery. That doesn’t seem exactly right, though—travel is such a romanticized idea that it never meets the expectations it carries (it can transcend them, though). I’m well aware that typical sea journeys are long and dull, and sea beasts and cities of ships are the stuff of stories—but maybe it is the creation of those stories I feel like I am missing. It used to be the journey, not the destination, but these days the journey takes five hours, and you spend most of it watching Parks and Recreation re-runs. It’s opened up so many places, but now instead of even skimming the surface, we fly high enough to ensure we can’t see it at all.