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The man could taste the salt and crust it into his long bus stash.

The constant spray of water from vicious waves in the omnipresent Atlantic wind had soaked

to thick wool and cloak.

Only a week had passed since their little group of boats had set off from the shore,

leaving the tall cliffs of their homeland shrinking behind them until there was nothing but

the vastness of the ocean all around.

And even though it had only been a week, he couldn't remember what it felt like to be

warm and couldn't imagine what the sensation would feel like.

Perhaps it was better not to remember.

The less he remembered, the more natural the cold and damp felt, his normal state of being.

He was the leader of this ambitious voyage, and he couldn't afford to show his companions

how miserable he truly was.

The boat pitched as it crested a particularly large wave, its wood frame and the stretched

height of its whole creaking with the strain.

The helmsman at the rear of the boat cursed, hauling hard on the steering or it to keep

the light craft running along the waves instead of through them.

The seas were unseasonably rough.

They had already lost one of the hide boats in his storm soon after they had left home.

Its cargo of fine bronze swords and cauldrons lost at the bottom of the Atlantic, along

with his brother-in-law.

...