He felt the cool wind of a thousand voyages kiss the crew. The sea brushed against the bow, rocking the vessel. The smell of salt flooded the air as the shore grew near. A few dozen men gripped the paddles, rowing in unison. The sound of echoing glorious shanties rolled with the waves. Strong southern winds caught against the sail as its structure cut the sea below. He gazed among the shore, its beaches made of soil and inland populated with spruce. The tides fluctuated, hesitant to settle as the moon guided its path. Into the depths laid many unfortunate skeletons, washed onto the soil through many months. He looked to the sky as an ocean of blue mirrored the water below. Clouds of cotton white scattered the sky in no specific pattern, boasting their irregular beauty. He looked behind to observe a wake wedging themselves towards land, dispersing a small group of mackerel. Their mossy green scales met the shade produced by the sea and flickered brightly as they passed beside the stern, then towards the bow. The man stood just before the edge, blocking the sun's blinding rays with his hand. As the land grew closer he recalled the harsh wrath of the ocean, its temper fought the crew through storms and peril. He relished in thoughts of victory and wept for those lost in voyage. The sea was a cruel mistress in past months, only rewarding as they found land. Seafarers aboard the vessel traversed her narrow inlets and coastal regions, the wide lakes separate from her touch and winding rivers throughout the mainland. She carried the vessel through impassable mountains and high rising ravines, but they always found their way to her cold embrace. To the north marks their homeland, a desolate land of ice and snow. Their frozen mistress even exists there, colder than ever. Her body is the resting place of many sailors, her final kiss of frostbite numbs their bones to the grave. He bent over the bow, reaching his hand into her embrace. With a swift reach, he washed the grime from his face and peered once more to the closing shore. A gravel bed was revealed as they pierced the darkened beach. Its condition proved malleable, shaping to the contours of the long ship. He stepped out of the boat and sank into the ground with his shoes. The men surrounding him docked the vehicle on his command. The sea brought a series of waves onto the beach, washing away the disturbed sediment until the vessel appeared as if the gravel swallowed the hull many moons ago. Slowly the sailors unpacked their belongings, bringing out provisions and equipment. Soon the scent of salt mingled with that of alcohol and meat. The men continued their shanties under the veil of smoke, enjoying a rewarding feast following the treacherous journey across the sea. One sailor called to him with a drink in his hands, "Captain! We made it, for the love of the gods we made it". The towering man decorated in furs and leather broke from his aimless gaze. He looked to the horizon as the sun set along the ocean, his fist clenched and his eyes teared. "The ocean is a cold, unforgiving mistress…" he spoke softly. He then turned towards the celebrating sailor, with resolve in his eyes. "All I know is we haven't made me broke, married, or dead" he declared abruptly before plucking the tankard from the young man's hand "And we ARE gonna make me drunk". The gathering of sailors around the campfire let out a cheer as they all finished their drinks. The captain took another glance at the sea and closed his eyes, "Maybe we did make it". The night was full of stories and reembrace. They drank for those who fallen, wept for the wives they left behind, sang for the joy of fatherhood, embellished in the glory of battle. To these men, sailing was all they knew, and the sea was their life. Some were fisherman, others were husbands, a few knew carpentry, one was a captain, but all were brothers. As the night raged on and the fire died down, they emptied their mead and filled their bellies, for tomorrow they cast off again, into their cold, cold mistress.