Turning the Point

We have been out of port for two days, and have moved on to the sherry…
The grog that we have been slopping the mates has kept them at barely an arms length from mutiny. Day two in search of her has yielded nary a sight or sound of our prize. She may not have descended below the marine layer, but the whirling eddies of passing clouds prove she is an artist unbekownst of her greatest creations. Soon she will have to be seen. We know not when, but we will be there. I have heard tales of fanciful flights to far of lands without breaking cover of sight for days. I hope this does not hold true. Fruitless for more than a few days and the mates will becoming uncontrollably restless. I too know this feeling of restlessness, yet mine has gnawed at my insides for years. These simple cretins, navigating the rigging while I navigate the globe know nothing of real desire. They crave from her only what she shows, and in this they never see the true prize. I, however, know what lies beneath, under careful guard. We shall not stop, be it foul weather or foul temperament, I will have her. Today we sail on, riding the diaphanous breeze of camaraderie, drunk on the spirits of the unforeseen future. I know full well the clouds will break, the sun will bathe my sails and glance from the waves like stars. For that day, I watch, and I wait.


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