The Last Watch

Wind sharply cuts the deck of Calypso, a 30-year-old Trakler. The Atlantic stretched around him like an old enemy - sometimes friends, sometimes enemies. It was his 2nd year, and tonight he felt the weight of each as the moonlight glowed over the troubled waves.

Elias has been a sailor since he was 17 years old and ran from a country he had no. He recalls his first trip with big eyes and sea illness, pursuing the horizon as if he had a secret truth. Over the years, he's seen everything - temperature tests that ship like toys like downfall and sky dance looked like spilled glitter. He survived his friend, managed four ships, and engraved his name on the port from Lisbon to Cape Town.

Now he was alone.

It's not a tragedy; it's your choice. His crew was on land this morning when he wore Halifax. He tells them that he needs a final sail alone, alone, at night, before he retracted Calypso and finally put on the captain's hat. You don't understand - how can you do it? The sea wasn't just Elias' work. It was language, rhythm. promise.

Navigating in open water caused the engine to be cut low. He had no goals - just the desire to have him wear the sea at the end. He put the bike, salt and paint embedded in every ditch. He could almost hear the voices of his old friends echoing through the wind. With his endless joke, Big Tom in his story by Mumbai and Charlie always voicing the key.

"Goodman," he muttered.

As the stars covered the sky, Elias dropped her anchor. The water was calm here, and the swelling was gentle and swelled. He sat on the deck carrying a dark bottle of rum, his joints hurt, but his heart was alive.

Then I heard a knock.

He froze. Calypso was miles from the coast in front of the anchor - no other ships were visible.

Knock. knock.

Not loud and not threatening. It's just... strange.

He slowly rose to his feet and followed the sound of the taxable side. There is nothing. Then, move - only under the surface.

Elias squinted her eyes. For a while, he thought he had seen the form - humanoid, but not perfect. slim. pale. A flash of silver hair or perhaps a light trick.

Then there was silence.

He rubbed his eyes and laughed quietly. "You're finally cracking, old man."

was still lingering about the moment. Don't worry, but adore. It was as if he was tied up to something older than time. The sea has finally kept its secret. Returning to the rudder, he leaned against the rails, staring at the moonlight waves. He recalls a story his grandmother had told before - the temperature of SE and the depth of observers, guardians. She was the daughter of the lighthouse, and had salt and folklore to salt and her Linden songs.

"They will give themselves to the sea, and it will return something," she says.

What was given to sea Elias? Living free, yes. Loneliness too. But there is also a purpose.

He stayed there until the first red redness of the eastern horizon smeared with pink and gold. The wind shifted, and I was wearing a salty aroma and sweetness - Jasmine? It's unlikely, but it's real.

, and whispers - emotion, not sounds: "You were seen."

He blinked. The voices were neither male nor female, but they felt old and friendly. He didn't doubt it. Maybe it was rum. It was probably the sea that he said goodbye.

When the sun inherited the horizon, he turned the calypso. The waves appeared gently conductive in front of him. Elias felt ready for the first time in years. A ready home. I'm ready to tell his story. Ready to be quiet.

When the ports were visible, the seagulls cried out over their heads, circulating in a lazy circle. The crew returned late in the morning and was surprised early, probably drinking fresh coffee on an old gas stove. Elias smiled.

The sea has let him go.

, but he would always hear him squeal the floorboards, wind struts and the slow waves in the distance on sleepless nights.

And when his time finally came, he knew where he wanted the place where his ashes were scattered.