I never planned on being a sailor.

All my life, all I've ever wanted is to be a writer.

Yet, after four years of undergrad, I failed to get into any grad school to further my craft.

My writing has been described as competent, but lacking potential.

There aren't many employment opportunities that come with an English degree,

but I found out that the merchant marines are always in need of sailors. I figured it would be a

chance to see the world and eventually find something to write about. Forget all those fancy

grad schools. I would write the great American novel all on my own.

So far, that hasn't been the case.

The learning curve for my sailing job has been rough.

I guess, competent but lacking potential, can also describe my sailing career.

Despite the harsh criticism, I've persisted in my work. And while I may never

make captain some day, I'm at least not much of a burden anymore. Most of the other sailors

no longer go out of their way to insult me or avoid me, except for tombs and his best friend

Gates. But there's always going to be an asshole wherever you go.

I lie awake in my bunk, surrounded by the snores and rising and falling chests of other sailors.

After a few days in China, we've just left the port, and something has been nagging at me.

Earlier today, I saw the captain rush

a few crates into the cargo hold. They weren't on any of the manifests, and the people handling

the containers paid him in cash. He eyed me suspiciously when he caught me looking his way,

so I immediately turned back to my work and tried to put it out

of my mind. Yet, the crates press on my imagination despite my exhaustion. Since coming aboard

...