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FISHER GIRLS
Dreamed 1996/7/15 by Wayan

I dream of Gray's stilthouse--the cover of FISHERGIRLS.
INTRODUCTION

I keep visiting this other world in dreams. Well, I visit a LOT of worlds in dreams. But this one's a regular, like Earth. It's a warm ocean-world, with only one real continent, and that's polar. So the only decent-sized habitable land is a forested finger like a big Malaya or Kamchatka, stretching all the way to the subtropics. Still, the warm seas swarm with atolls, reefs, and islands. Green isles, with flocks of flowers. And the people are friendly, playful, good-natured, beautiful, and loving... So I keep going back.

But on my last dream-trip, I somehow got myself BORN there.

Oops. More fun to visit. Up close, even Eden has fleas.

I lean on a shoulder-high globe of my world: mostly seas, (labeled in native glyphs) and a rather tangled dotted line: our voyage.
HOME

I grew up in a fishing village on the southeast coast. My people are loving, but so traditional! I felt stifled as I grew older--good girls obey the elders, good girls are modest and quiet. In revenge, I'll draw myself tall bold and glamorous here. You leaned on me, you tried to squash me--well now I'm leaning on YOU, world!

I'm not QUITE sure how we looked. Long noses ears legs and tails, gray fur and grace--but were we feline, canine, or more like lemur or aardvark people? My visual memory's even fuzzier than WE were. I think our eyes weren't shape-oriented. Glitter and motion drew me, like a cat. Sound and touch and smell...

I've tried to draw my life honestly, but when it comes to how things LOOKED exactly, my story stew is a little skimpy on memory fish. Mostly just the thin broth of guesswork.

But what we did and said and felt--that's not made up. It happened and I'll never forget.

This tale is true.

A butterfly-bird perches, looking at the bright body-ornaments of the fisher people: feathered bracelets, a diagonal shell-sash, an inlaid penis sheath.
So here we are. I'm the one dancing of course. You can call me Gray. I guess you can see why--plain tan-gray and white coat, except a few flank dapples, sigh. Who said beauty is but fur deep? The best volcano goddesses always wear gray and white--fertile ash and precious rainclouds--but tell THAT to your agemates and see how many prawns it gets you.

The others are my two best friends. No, dive all the way down, Gray! My ONLY friends.

That's Leaf up the tree, hiding behind her tail as usual. She's the youngest of us three, small and thin and very shy... but she's also the only person I know who's smarter than me, especially in math. She wants to be a navigator, though even her teacher laughs at her. "Girls aren't spatial thinkers."

Under the tree, playing her ammonite harp (it's made from a big Nautilus shell) is our best friend, Atoll--because her spots are hollow swirls like atoll-maps. She's, I don't know, our big sister I guess. The wise one. Well, the FIRST glyph I was going to paint was "sane." True too. She's not even a total misfit. She gets invited to some parties, even if they just want her there to sing. Of course they don't want HER songs, just traditional dance tunes. They don't know what they're missing! She composes these outrageous new ballads from her dreams. Mystical one verse, absurd the next. She gets lost in composing for days sometimes... like Leaf in her maps and stars.

jungle with hanging flowers. Atoll, an equine girl, sits playing a spiral harp. Leaf, a small feline girl, hides in a tree. Gray, a canine/feline/lemur mix, dances to the right.
Leaf weaving a reedfeather staff for trade.

It's up to me to drag them back into life and adventure. A volcano's job--to spice the soil with ash, spice life with a little chaos sauce.

I don't apologize for how plain we are. We don't wear fine ornaments. No flash and glitter. We're unpopular girls. No one to impress.

You might conclude we're poor.

You might be wrong.

Our village is metal-poor, so things look stone age, but don't be fooled: we're good biologists and ecologists. Other species are lovingly tended (especially if they taste good). Finding a new species wins you a LOT of respect--and we three plan to do it.

For months, Atoll and Leaf and I have been doing crafts and odd jobs, saving up to outfit our own boat, so we can explore the Edge of the World--not a real edge of course, we know the world's a ball (though my grandma tells me the Forest Folk two days inland still have a secret society called the Flat-Earth Cult. No surprise, they're all dumb as frogs in there).

We want to sail unknown tropical seas--and incidentally get away from our relatives.

View of the village, with Gray naked on her steps, stringing shells, watching decked-out couples heading for a dance
teenage Fisher couple in party outfits

Coming-of-age quests are nothing unusual, in our town, for boys. If you return, you're a man; if you find a new species or island or fishing bank, you're a hero.

If you don't come back, well, better to lose you now, before you have dimwit cubs. The science elders call it "The survival of the fit test."

But they make fun of us girls for wanting to sail! We're "unfeminine" to work so much and save up our credit--we should spend it on ornaments and dances like normal girls.

One reason we don't go to their parties is that our age-mates snub us--we're below their tideline. But they buy Leaf's featherweaves and my shell jewelry! Even Atoll--when she plays at their dances some people actually tip her a pearl or two like she's not a guest! And she swallows her anger and takes that!

It's for the boat. The boat out.

Atoll getting tipped at a party for her harping
We finally saved enough to buy this beat-up old fishing boat. The boat-wrights wouldn't give us advice, like they give the boys. "Girls CAN'T sail all the way to the Tropic Edge. You're hard-working cubs; we won't help you die."

So we fix it up ourselves. I don't mind. It's best to know every hair of your own boat.

Boys in trees taunt us three, as we scour the upturned hull of our boat
Leaf working under the boat.

Some of the boys come out and taunt us. I think they're scared: if we come back with news of a new island or species, it's one less for them to find. We're competitors now--I wouldn't even put it past a few of them to sabotage our boat.

Still... it's pleasant working out here under the sky, away from the old termite mound and all its gossips.

Scraping off limpets I feel like a nursling cub again--tiny on the huge breast of Mother Boat. Shaggy with mussel shells though--scratchier than fur.And not much milk!

Or a lover--boat rolled over purring like a boy who likes you--the keel between my thighs, sun-warmed. Mmm. My own mate! One I can scrape the sharp bits off--the attitudes, the catty remarks... sorry!

The boys here don't want me--at least the way I am.

And I am the way I am.

The popular girls would claw my daydreams to splinters if I were stupid enough to tell them. Boat breasts, lover keels! Silly, useless.

testing the boat in the lagoon. But they're wrong. Dreams keep you working when there's tar on your fur again, and some boy laughing at you up a tree.

Or at least they help me.

We righted the hull, retied the deck, stepped the mast, and the old beast floated, stable and seaworthy. The village gossips just retreated one step. Now it's "Girls are too weak for deepsea sailing, and they can't do the math to navigate on such a long journey."

Right. Leaf's only better than Master Glasseye.

We stock up for the voyage as best we can. nervous, hearing their judgments we're sick, suicidal cubs. Funny how physical things all cooperate, as if Sea Mother welcomes us. The only difficult headwind blows from the mouths of our agemates, and their elders... It's hard to ignore everyone saying you're doomed.

And then, one day, there's no more delaying. Leap in the water, risking death, or live here, safe, in shame.

We untie the rope and raise the sail... As we cross the inlet, the village never looked so good. I feel pretty charitable toward the old fish barrel, now that we're leaping over the lip.

Leaving home. Half the village gawks, from stilthouse roofs, landings and canoes. Some laugh; some throw rotten fruit.
Then I hear my own Aunt Ragged shout from our stilt house "Come back! You're going to die!"

Thanks for your support, I think. What a relief to leave you all!

Some cubs throw rotten mangos. But... most DON'T. I thought ALL our agemates hissed at what we're doing! Maybe we have silent friends--just with more to lose than we do.

Now we HAVE to come back alive--to find out.

Oh squid guts! It was easier thinking they all hate us!

A boy throws bad fruit at us from a landing, but his sister drops her mango quietly in the water
Hunting new lands is easier than new friends. When you find an island, you KNOW: you can't dance on water! But silent cubs--what are they? Shifting sandbars, soft tidal mud? Or a rich reef, hiding just under those surface girls with all their flash and glitter--a reef of support I never noticed?
Next: Part 2: VOYAGE



LISTS AND LINKS: recurring dreams - other worlds - forests - I'm Just Not Myself Today - cross-gender dreams - cross-species dreams - dream beings - animal people - cats - coyotes - horses - lemurs, other primates - loners - gender - sailing - lesbians - out of the closet! - joy - mazes and labyrinths - plants - taste and smell - dragons - fear - aliens - gifts - diseases - light - outcasts! - sex dreams - lesbian sex - love - sexy creatures - hunks - babes - goals and values - social change - community - healing from abuse - politics - power - quests - life-paths - comix - pencil - picture-stories - Dawn - another dreamer sees the Fishergirls before I did: Trespassers in Malanchai - a 2nd dream inspired by Shirley Rousseau Murphy's "Nightpool": Fox Boy


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