The deck of a ship is a treacherous thing - made of wood hard enough to break bones, and always shifting beneath you. It doesn't move on its own, of course, it simply repeats what the sea says. You learn to read its movements, spot the tells. But the deck only ever humours you: "sea legs" or not, every sailor falls.

But he - HE - was just different. You'd glance over, and he would be high atop the prow of the ship, perched easy inches from the end-of-everything, eyes closed with his face tilted up. Smiling.

It was as if he, the deck, and the sea had a secret agreement that the rest of us weren't privy to.