Stem to stern awash in salt sea air and fare the wind that blows us on the port. A life of shifting steps that makes a wreck of first tried solid earth.
Sails pulled taut, no slackers here to sheer away the mainsails rigging. With the only swinging in topmast, the fluttering pennant of our master.
The taffrail a favorite spot on moonlit nights thinking of mermaids and far away sights yet unseen, the silver fish that beat the waves and flash while leaping skyward.
Smells of salt pork and beans still lingering below decks form cooks fire now turned to beating out some black smithed bobstay link to comfort the captains mind and give us all some landfall perhaps this coming Wednes day.
The cathead full with anchor weight till god delivers us up to Davey Jones or safely in snug harbor.
The rat lines sing with merry feet when the call to quarters rings. It’s up and up she blows, lay on the sheets to hear the strain of canvas on the lines no violin could ever capture.
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