copyright 1994

To my friend Duke, met on a dreadful night, and to the undescribable help his pure heart brought to me as i was hopelessly struggling in a fight that had torn both my heart and my most inner soul...

His hair was dripping in the lightly pouring rain. The young Captain, eighteen years old and almost nineteen, was on the deck shivering as he desperately watched the horizon. There was a storm ahead, a real big storm. His eyes would search the sky as tears heavily melted with the droplets on his face. What was he to do?

The lightly brown wooden ship was full, as in the previous trip. The cargos were added to a maximum capacity for the travel. They were such as the decks were barely a foot over the level of the water. The two large white sails were standing, wet, next to each other, as twins who had the same destiny.

The previous trip had almost been a miracle. The young Captain had brought his sailboat, alone, proving that it COULD sail, with about twenty cargos - it's maximum capacity - across the calm blue ocean. It had been his first trip, magnificent in both the effort required to undertake it, alone, and the small laps of time in which it had been done. The people needed all the cargos, so he brought as much as he could at a time.

But this time it was different. There was a huge storm ahead, one that was aggravating the sea, creating giant waves that would crash in every direction. He HAD to bring that cargo. He felt like turning back, but he couldn't. But the boat wouldn't make it. He was so young, but the decision belonged to him. It was overwhelming: he needed both the cargo and to get to his destination. He couldn't turn back. He felt, he knew it was too late. And he cried on his deck, in front of his shipmates, as they affirmed backing him up whatever his choice. Was he to throw his cargo away and turn the ship back, maybe sailing it another time? Or was he to keep the cargo, all of it, and risk the deadly storm?

The darkened sky, struck by lightning, was anouncing a rapid approach. He was torn apart, as his tears were running from his eyes to his lips; torn between two things having the same goal. The people needed that cargo. Was he to bring it now or save it and bring it much later? The people needed the cargo now. But it would be impossible to bring it without destroying the ship.

He, they, were entering the storm, as his close friend held his hand from the right side, showing him his deepest feelings while respecting the silence of the moment. The young Captain knew that he had to make a choice, in that short laps of time, and he also knew, oddly enough, that he would KNOW just as the time was coming. The first aggressively curving darkened wave hit the decks, oscillating them as to prepare the sailors for death...

The order was given out as the tears stop to shed:

"Jattison one fourth of the cargo. Lower the two middle sails. Raise the small front one. Slow the pace down to one third. Prepare to unload any falling water." ; "Yes SIR! :)"

He was standing straight, his legs and arms widely openned and straightenned out as to control the old wooden wheel in the best way possible. They were going to make it. He was going to make it. The ship was going to go through, with less cargo, but still saved. The people wouldn't get all of the cargo, but they would get some. He would just have to make more trips...but it was of no importance.

As the ship was steadily avancing in the storm, his deep brown eyes were glittering, with a different kind of glitter, seeing the whole way and how to get there. He had stopped shivering, even though his bluish black hair was soaked, his shirt was torn, his tough blue pants were dirty and drenched, and his bare feet were diving in the deck's uninvited water.

The young Captain, the young boy, was becoming a man...

His name was Ryan.