Old man Horace let go of the wheel. His little fishing dinghy was at the mercy of the nautical powers. This wasn't bad weather, it was two storms trying to consume each other. The one which had rolled in from the south this morning was winning.
The first lesson a sailor learns is to love the waves and wind. The second is to accept that something as vast as the Atlantic will never notice you, much less love you back.
Horace touched his face. He hadn't looked in a mirror in years, but the water had occasionally decided to show him the reflection of the face it had sculpted over half a century. He seemed to wake up every morning with new feelings towards the ocean, but now he only saw a nameless mass grave clawing at the gunwale. He would soon join the numberless captains, fishermen, pirates, unlucky passengers and children who had played in the waterfront while their parents weren't watching.
A brutal wave sent the old man tumbling against the mast. His bones creaked along with Lizzy's planks. He was already drenched, cold all the way through. "At least give me some thunder to go" he mumbled.