O'er the rolling swells and through stinging spray, he stares at sights only in his mind. Nimbly shifting with the rolling deck as the seas swirl and pluck at his tiny craft, unbidden or noticed besides the deft movements of the helm without pause or thought.
The screaming in the wires or roaring of a quartering sea not heard as the voice of one so fair and far away, whispers, not quite understood. Hours drag by as endlessly as the storm that thrashes waves to their frenzy, without meaning or merit.
Glazed eyes, wet from salt or something else roam over the sea ahead unseeing. Dread chill seeps to the core, matching the heart within. No safe port seeking or haven wanted by this man alone against the cold black heart of the sea.
Other thoughts cloud his mind. Other storms for which he has no skills to face or conquer. No home has he, no hearth, no hope. Only the sea in all of it's glory and horror. For here he knows there is no solice or mercy. For here he is home.