Most who sail the sea are afraid of enduring a storm. I’d not be anywhere else for all the gold on all the islands, because I only see him when lightning strikes the ocean.
Raindrops plummet down my neck, each dying quick deaths in the jade-dark waves. Night thickens around me and my coracle
In honor of my first Crossing the Line—or equator, as landlubbers call it—I bought a parrot. Scarlet she was, with a tuft of white atop her head, which I smoothed down, saying, “I’ll call you Poll Whitecap,” thinking of the foam-topped waves.
“Can’t believe you paid so much for…
“So why Tarshish?”
The man’s shoulders tensed, but he continued counting out the coins for my fare. Finally, he shrugged. “I hear it’s nice this time of year.”
“Right.” I fought the urge to roll my eyes. Tarshish, nice? Either the man was greatly misinformed—no one went to Tarshish on holiday—or…
The stars are my guide.
It isn’t their light that I follow so much as their song. Every night, I wait for them to come out, to paint the ocean waves. Water laps against my boat, and I follow the path laid out by the celestial chorus.
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