The salty sea air mists into my hair, coagulates and runs down my face and into the corners of my eyes and mouth. The sting, the bite, the howl of the wind creases my eyes, ruffles my brow, as laughter fills my throat. A hearty roar to the sea erupts from within, to the great devils of this creation. It sings of defiance, of thrill, of loss. A thunderclap to be heard for a hundred miles as great swells of salt sweep the decks, stalking for an unsuspecting quarry. The rough grit of wood under my bare feet creaks and moans, screaming in pain as she is wrenched and torn by the wind and the sea. The sharp cracking report of rope and sail made taught, of muscle and gristle grinding, to control the vast and wretched forces at work. The great expanse, the crushing blows of this wetted plane try with will to gash apart, to pull us down to the cold and chilly depths. To bestill the movement and pace of a voyage, a man, a roar to the squall. But this is not the day that the wetted beasts which crawl, spray, and stalk around this sanctuary of timber will taste victory. Today, the vast and unknown depths, the chill, the salt, the wind, will all be brought to heal.