Getting ready to go is a unique static, in between. Everything around you’s about to disappear. Seeing it from a distance, evaluating. What we might miss.

I’ve never loved the ocean for anything but its own sake. True seafarers are moved by forces I just theorize. I haven’t felt that blood pull into the elements; it surprises me how clearly I remember things I’ve thrown up underway, even seven or eight years ago.       
     But now, rowing across the bay, the sea smells like watermelon, and—it’s ancient, but always new. Nothing but stories out there.