Set Keel To Breakers

Under a full meat-red moon, swollen and low, the narrow craft drives its black hull through the writhing sea. Hood drawn, hands steady on the tiller, the pilot moves with the sea’s rhythm. Crossing through a gateway. The water is black glass between swells. Each crest strikes the prow like a slow heartbeat. Far off, two pillars rise in the mist, bone-white in the moon's glare, standing sentinel over a passage unseen. The craft slides on, the wake closing behind it, toward another shore, another task, another battle.