The internet is down

 

The sky freezes, as the ship rises deep in it's hull, banking almost vertical as it fights the torment of blue black moving motion. All men are bracing now, black figures buttoned up, their spirits almost spent,as they have warriored for days now in the black futility against the water and the ice. But there is one, that is more distinct than the rest, his blue cornish eyes stare out from beneath blonde cornish hair, the golden cornish face frozen, ruddy and complex. His name is Silas Weisbach, dark and solid he regards the torrent, unmoving from beneath a seaman's coat wrapped so high, his face is almost veiled. He is closed and as dark, and put away as the great sail, pulled and tightly coiled around him, Like all of his possessions the coat, and everything he owns came out of a great mahogany trunk, the teak, bought from Africa, and found one day in a way ward market, many summer's ago. A small, domestic earthy homely place where the great rolling coast of the green goes all the way down , and the small places cling to the land till it meets the deepest blue. Then he had been a young midship man, collecting ashore, stacking provisions, long before/and/ the Hindelacht had not yet set out on it's last and fatal voyage

But for now, he is pulled tightly and cannot think of the things that will not be seen again, because Sila Weibach, only son of his mother's love such knows as he watches the great bough rising, in the rough of the collapsing waters that at 23 years old the day that he was fated to leave this earth is finally, and undeniably here. MB