Wind and Water.

The clouds tonight are rushing headlong across the near-full moon, racing from the north east like so many hags on witchy business, their vestments leaping in the icy blast like cold flames while they roar their displeasure at those of us who cling to the steady land for safety.

It’s different being at sea in a small frigate during a heavy storm. The wind does not roar so much, for there is less to offer resistance. Instead it whispers in your ears, wild and sibilant, to augment the hammering of the mountainous swell on the puny vessel and the venomous hiss of bow waves surmounting the deck and splattering man and superstructure alike.

There is no land to cling to for safety on the dark briny, but only reliance on the fates and the sureness of sea legs to keep you from being hurled to a certain end. This I experienced on only four days in my life, but it was enough to be remembered.