As a young girl, while most kids were busy obsessing over the latest toy craze or perfecting their cartwheels, I was consumed with the peculiar fascination of naval warfare. As others were pretending to be superheroes or princesses, I was imagining myself as the commander of a grand fleet, barking orders from the deck of a creaking ship as the smell of saltwater stung my nostrils. Forget fairy tales; give me a cannon, a few battle-hardened sailors, and the promise of glory on the open sea. Or even in deep space; space combat is very much alike.
I was utterly entranced by the idea of steering a towering ship into battle, sails billowing, waves crashing, and with the steadfast belief that victory was always within reach. The strategy was, and still is, what captivated me. Mastering the art of outthinking one’s foes, of predicting their every move and countering it with precision, was the stuff of my dreams. Quite literally, in fact.
In my nightly escapades, I wasn’t just a girl with a vivid imagination. I was a master tactician, the kind that naval history books would wax lyrical about. I’d stride the deck, issuing commands with the gravitas of an admiral, as the cannon fire echoed in the distance. My crew, naturally, would scramble to execute my brilliant, if slightly audacious, maneuvers, all while the enemy floundered in confusion.
But, as with most things in life, these dreams weren’t solely about the thrill of battle. They were about the artistry of strategy itself. I relished the idea that Victory (with a capital V, mind you) wasn’t about brute force, but about cunning, foresight, and being perpetually one step ahead. In my dreams, I’d craft elaborate ruses, set clever traps, and execute ambushes with a flair that would make even the most seasoned strategists green with envy.
Of course, I’d also spend considerable time in these dreams tweaking my imaginary vessel. Honestly, if you’re going to engage in epic naval battles, you might as well do it with a ship that’s faster, more agile, and infinitely more intimidating than anything the enemy could muster. Sure, I had to work with what I was given, but that didn’t stop me from daydreaming about ways to make my ship the deadliest thing to ever sail the seven seas.
All of this, of course, led me to the inevitable conclusion that being a great tactician wasn’t just about winning battles; it’s about achieving greatness. Naturally, I believed I was destined for this sort of greatness, whether it was on the high seas, in deep space, or otherwise. I was prepared to dedicate my life to the pursuit of that elusive Victory, steering my ship with unparalleled skill, always looking downstream, and outthinking my foes with every clever turn.
The only minor hiccup in this grand plan is that I get frightfully seasick. Yes, as it turns out, my body doesn’t share my mind’s enthusiasm for the high seas. So, while the great tacticians of history might have steered their ships into glorious battle, I’m resigned to the safer waters of my imagination. There the only thing I must worry about is a particularly stubborn case of writer’s block.
So, I keep on dreaming about these grand naval adventures, where the seas are always calm, the ships are always swift, and the Victory is always sweet. At least in my mind, I’m still the master strategist I’ve always aspired to be. Just don’t ask me to actually set foot on a boat. If we build a massive space battlecruiser, though, I’ll happily take a tour.
~ Amelia Desertsong
