TREASURE ISLAND

It is night. In the midst of a swirling fog, in the midst of 
an inky sea, a ship heaves and creaks. Its lanterns glow with a cottony 
softness in the thickening gloom.

At the helm stands a hunched figure in an oily, tattered mackintosh, 
a demented soul whose courage is fired by intoxication. He believes 
himself alone on board. He believes himself to be the pilot. He began 
his voyage full of hope, under sunny skies and upon warm, Iimpid waters. 
Now he is lost in the night of his ignorance. His madly staring bloodshot
eyes show him nothing beyond the chilly curtain of damp void.

No star above by which to set the astrolabe. No beacon signalling 
a nearing ship or shore. No sound, save the steady churning of the 
waves and splash of spray.

“84 leagues I’ve sailed!” the sailor shouts, the words steaming 
from his savagely-working mouth only to be instantly mulled by the 
uncaring night air. “84 leagues, I’II sail 84 more! It's Treasure 
Island l’m bound to find, and find it I will!"

Another voice speaks out of the darkness beside him: this one 
calm, commanding, reassuring. “You know not what you seek. Let me 
guide you.” These gentle words echo dulcetly out over the wide expanse 
of waters.

"It’s you again,” snarls the would-be pilot.  “There you go, 
sneaking up on me like before. Why don't you ever show yourself?”

“You can see me when you’re prepared to follow my instructions. 
You’ve not been making any progress, you know. You’ve simply sailed 
in a circle.”

“Hear now. I'm the captain!", growls the sailor threatening.

The voice answers, “That’s just the problem. The sea is a dangerous 
place. You’re lost, but at least right now you can hear me. You should 
let me take the helm, for at any moment a storm may break and smash 
this puny craft. Or  you may be misled by some apparition of light or 
land. Or some monster from beneath the waves may seize this ship in its 
jaws. Or, if nothin’ else, this ship will sink from simple wear and tear.”

“You’re talking nonsense!” the sailor protests. “This ship is seaworthy 
and piloted by an able seaman! As for your stories of danger, I don’t 
believe them! And how can you take the ship’s wheel  --  you’re a ghost, 
a spirit, an apparition!"

Patiently, the kindly voice continues: “The Treasure Island you seek 
does not exist."

“What swill! I’ve seen with my own eyes corns of gold and silver brought 
back by sailors who’ve been there! They told me there’s plenty more for 
the takin’.”

“Treasure that can be clutched by greedy fingers is not treasure at all, 
but is merely a dream.”

“No, no, no! YOU are the dream! What is real is what shines with the 
glitter of gold!"

‘So thinks the moth when he flies into the fire. I will tell you the real 
treasure: It is found in a lard made of spiritual gems, where grow trees 
yielding all desire, where flow rivers of the purest nectar.” The sailor 
cocks his head, interested now, but still suspicious.

“This land is called Goloka. You cannot sail there by ship nor travel 
there by land or even fly there, but you can attain it in an instant 
through pure love. The dearmost object within this wonderful transcendental 
land Goloka is Krishna, the beautiful dark boy with the flute, Who plays 
there eternally with His pure devotees and shares with them the highest 
bliss of His divine love.”

In a more subdued voice the sailor asks, “If l can’t get there by ship, 
then how can I see this …Krishna?”

“Through surrender alone. This ship is your body, and you are the soul. 
Now you are sailing blindly in the endless ocean of maya, illusion. But 
if you simply turn over command of your destiny to Me, the spiritual master 
and guide within, you’II be blessed with this unparalleled treasure of 
love of God.”

The sailor’s weatherbeaten face drops and hardens into a mask of sullen 
stubbornness. “Me give up command? That’s too much to ask!”

“But what command do you have anyway? You’re lost!”

The sailor grasps the ship’s wheel defiantly, “l am the captain here, 
do you hear me? I AM THE CAPTAIN!"

But his shouts are drowned out by the violent howl of a windstorm that 
suddenly lashes the deck, almost pulling him off his feet.