I eyed the ship, both of us baked by the Caribbean sun. She lay almost upright, just a slight tilt to starboard there on the sand, almost akin to a tilting of the head that says, “Come on then, let’s make a go of it.” The hole had long been repaired, and smartly to if I do say so myself. The sail slumbered, safely stowed and free of tears or flaws.

Across a taunting sea lay home, with its securities, mundanity, and urbanity. You were there too, the idea of you calling out over the waves like a sweet siren. Thus beckoned to a welcoming bosom of hearth and home I sat stolidly upon the white sand, allowing myself to bake and stew. I was almost done, I reckoned, one way or the other.

“I shall not sail today,” I uttered to the crabs and sand fleas as though they would listen, not bothering to enumerate the reasons.

The wind could change.

The tide might be better anon.

My rations didn’t seem up to the journey.

How sturdy was my carpentry really?

Frankly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go home.