The Flying Dutchman Cargo dumped on the Ararat, and the ship taken under and past the rainbow. This wind is very old, and sometimes, in a remembrance of younger and better days, it screams, and runs amok, and beats the ocean waves into a salt spray like an old man's tears. And the dark ship heels a little, rolls a little, unwavering on its course through the midst of it all.
Storms sink no phantoms.
And sometimes, to amuse themselves, the sailors would catch a shark, first check its stomach, then cut out its heart and leave it beating on the deck, almost obscene, too stupid and too primitive to know that it was dead. Dark night, dark boats, wet wood against a wet horizon, tentacles of ropes coiling on the decks, and the moon wriggling through the clouds like an eel. A skeleton of a wreck rots in shallow water. Out of the darkness a wave comes, grows old on sand, and dies, like an oyster, in silence. Dragged out to sea and drowned are all our yesterdays, And our tomorrows may never get in safely through the surf.