"Samwise Gamgee," he mutters, "you old fool, you're going to get eaten by a giant fish, and that'd be no more than you deserve," but his arthritis-bent fingers are quick and sure on the oars and ropes. He never learned much about the craft of boat-sailing, but he figures he'll either be allowed or not, and his skills won't matter much.
The wind picks up his tiny sail straight out of the harbor, as he thought it would. He holds onto the boat for the dear life, and sings a sea shanty Pippin taught him once, heave-ho, heave-ho. The Grey Havens fade behind him, out of sight, maybe out of the world altogether. He might be the last to sail.
First day is terrifying and boring, second day is rainy and boring, third day gives him sun skipping over the green waves, fourth day deafens him with seagull cries, fifth day lies ahead like a yawning chasm; he doesn't have food or water prepared for sixth.
He dreams about Rosie, pared down by age and illness to elfin transparency, smiling up at him. He dreams about Mr. Frodo, staring at the shadows, the way his face would twist in minute horror and smooth out into stillness. He dreams about his daughter's light, nimble fingers twisting together flower stems, endless chains of elanors. He dreams asleep and awake, and his voice is long gone.
Sixth day is gnawing and painful, seventh day is hopeless and bitter. He thinks of trying to fish, collecting the morning dew, but cannot muster the action. Either he will be allowed or he will not be, he always knew that.
Eighth day brings the stillness of death with it. But just as he closes his eyes, the air around him sings him into the golden light.