The storm goes on forever, the rigging stretched to breaking point.
The salt alive to taste and vision, the tarred boards moan in an agony
of stress, unable to contain the buffeting force of wind and elemental surf.
Becalmed we decry our misfortune, stranded, silent, alone,
baking under the scorching heat of the midday sun.
Parched we drink our ration of liquid life and a rusk for sustenance,
and in an idle moment – which is every moment –
we pray for wind or rain or something to give us hope
of life or forward motion, never seen but only felt.
The surf breaks – white, alive – by the bow cut clean through.
We make headway but know not where, our compass is askew.
Yet happy we are to keep on moving, out into the infinite blue.
We are all but travelers in an ocean, making progress as we do.
Storms and calm and gentle motion are but the journey we must endure.
To loath or love makes no difference, the destination’s much the same,
we must reach our journeys end but how we get there is our all.
