The waves beneath my feet, caress the wooden hull.

The sweet smell of salt invades my nose like a spike of wood through pork.

The goddess and mystical sirens of the depths run their salty tendrils of song in my hair as it spirals about me.

My men looking, longing, searching.

The port of rest is behind us.

The tide and wind are with us.

Water currents ahead.

"Hold Fast Men!" is called loud and true.

My command has become. My master has called, the master of all, the true one, I am merely commanding the powerful orders.

The great sea is before us, fathoms of deep that take and give life.

The ropes creak with anticipation as if it is a string on my deplorable violin playing skills, that is what Stephen says anyway, he is one to talk; his cello skills are as dry as a stale piece of bread.

My call has begun, "It is time to get the French!"