The deck of a ship is a treacherous thing - a mass of wood hard enough to break bones, and always dancing beneath you. It doesn't dance to its own rhythym, of course, it simply echoes whatever mood the sea is in. You learn to read the movements, spot its tells. But it is only false confidence: every sailor falls.

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

I never understood it. It was as if he, the deck, and the sea had a secret agreement that the rest of us simply weren't privy to.