Walking the pier, up the plank to the ship, I took one last look at home. I turned my back and all was behind me, because my back was turned, and in order to walk forward, by definition, there must be something at my back…. At sea for a hundred days, a thousand. The storm came at night, the ship lurched, heaved. I went below deck and hid behind the barrels of gunpowder. I heard the thunder, saw the flashes of lightning through the side of the ship, through the slats in my brain. The ship rocked so, I vomited profusely. I heard the men above scampering, yelling. I eventually managed to take out my pipe from inside my jacket. Somehow I lit it. The smoke calmed my stomach, but irritated my thoughts: The barrels of gunpowder, a broom handle, a glass jar rolling back and forth. I suddenly felt compelled, from whence it came I know not. I pried open the top of a barrel, scooped some powder in my hand, and scattered it around the barrels. I tossed my pipe toward my handiwork. Then I chickened out and ran up to the deck just as I heard the explosion….
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