The portal is a song on your skin then you are breathing salt wind that frolicks through your hair. The momentum of the streaking ship is invisible, unfelt. The ocean heaves with silent, strange life engaged in calamari courtship rites, immense limbs curling in the sky, suckers palpitating, to momentarily obscure the sun.

Nights are equally ethereal, the ianthine ignis fatuus rising from the midnight waves and the bioluminescent shrimp crawling after to seethe the surface into a riot of night colours. The sea carp troll their whiskers and snap down choice selections.

And the soft salt wind and the silence.

Always the wind and silence as you squat to shit and piss above the hole in the center of the boat, looking up at the massive moon taking up half of the horizon sending its laughing light frosting the wave tips.