November 15, 2017: Saturated. Clothes, skin, bed. Though my goal was a life with fire. Strike the jib is the call I live for. Like an addict needing a fix I crave the juicy adrenaline pumping through my veins, craving the feeling of the line stretching under my weight. The image of that same line parting and by body falling, down, down, down, until those bright purple lanyards violently catch my fall. Pressed under the hard wooden hull of the ship. That image is what makes my knuckles white and nails clawing at the dark red canvas. Eyes and skin stinging, who would have thought that the water that keeps us alive and the wind that lets us explore could be added together into some weird concoction of pain.