It happens.


You fall asleep at the helm, you’re below getting a peanut butter sandwich, working on the bilge pump, you drift off course.

Onto the rocks.



Maybe the first you notice of it is the rending and crashing of the rocks driven right through the hull, or maybe you’ve seen it coming all the long night, those dark shapes looming and the roar of the surf growing louder, but the pull of the tide drags you inexorably towards your doom.



Your efforts to get her turned around futile, and too late.




What’s he doing there?

Consoling her?


Or himself?


Holding on to her so he won’t fall, or so she won’t flee?


Does he got the first idea of what?


Maybe he dragged what was left of their craft out of the rocks and built them that house on stilts out there where they could still smell the salt air and hear the sea’s lament.


Maybe he aims to drown them both.


She’s got her own ideas, that’s clear.


I don’t think we’ll know but if we come back in a while there’ll just be empty beach where this small drama played itself out.




I hope you are all well and happy in your particular way.