wearynes

Stinking tar, roiling pitch and the relentless smell of dead fish hangs over the deck, augmented with pungent gusts of air from the galley below. As the bell for the second watch rings out, a tall figure slides with weary grace from the mast top, and crawls covertly along to the prow, grateful for the darkness, absence of moon and presence of star-obscuring clouds. Sleep perhaps will come, let fear and anxiety float for a while on the vast black ocean. How many nights have passed in this manner? Raw red hands clasp the planking, splinters driving deep into the callused palms. He no longer felt the desire for adventures. He no longer felt young. Two years ago he had been new to the ways of sailors, unschooled in the ship arts, new to the sea…new to the now familiar longing for her…