The storm raged for hours. The ship rocked, and the tumultuous waves threatened to knock it over, but still, the boat pressed on. Lightning cracked, and thunder crackled overhead, and still, the crew pressed on. There was no food left, and not nearly enough warm blankets. But the crew persevered, and continued rowing. The heavy rain came pouring down, and so did the sweat from the men’s bodies. But then the sweat and the water mixed, and one could not even know the men were tired. But if you looked at their lethargy, then perhaps it was apparent. They were ready to give up now, these men. The crew struggled to gain inches on the sea, and were threatened every second to be pulled under. Such cruel torture they had to survive, but still, the crew pressed on. Toil and toil, row and row, they continued into the wee hours of the night, when suddenly, the rain stopped and the clouds broke apart. A few hours later, the sun rose, and the men wiped their now visible sweat and relaxed.
They did not congratulate each other. Storms were part of their job description. Storms were necessary, a break from the monotony of their routine. Perhaps they had gone a little insane, because they had once been afraid of storms but now they only wondered if anybody had died. Dying in a storm was a brave enough thing – it did not have to be mourned. If one died in a storm, for if one died bravely, it was an end to a life well-spent. If the storm was the taker, then the man’s soul went in peace. He fought as hard as he could, but was swept away by the wind, or swallowed up by the water. But he did not drown, he passed on. The storm never truly ended, you see, so the men were content. They would all die happy, because the storm never ended. The rain and the wind and the lightning and the thunder may have ceased to rage around their boat, but the storm was never over.