There were two kinds of love in the life of a skirl.
Wiser minds than he had decided as much about the kinds of love, and while Hal might not be familiar with the written philosophy, the long debates, or the textbook definitions, he knew the two kinds of love in ways that paper and ink couldn't convey.
The first kind of love in the life of a skirl was fierce and jealous and selfish, a greedy need to possess, stemming from the utter certainty that no man nor woman nor god could care for his ship as well as he could. Hal Mikkelson knew this sort of love well. He had poured his blood, his sweat, and his tears - often literally - into his Heron, and he knew her in ways no one else could. It was not a question of experience, or skill, or any other identifiable trait. But each wolfship was alive, in her own fashion, and reading the Heron's song was nearly effortless. As for the Heron, she knew her skirl in ways no man nor woman nor god could ever hope to. He had breathed the life into her, brought her to the seas with a part of his soul, and in return she was unflichingly loyal to him. Her bones shrieked in protest at the idea of abandoning her captain, cried and wailed when steered away, in ways that would chill the blood of any sailor. She needed him, as surely as he needed her.
The second kind of love was no less fierce, but calmer and more restrained, a watchful, protective sort of love - and, in stark contrast to the first kind of love, utterly selfless. Where the first kind left no room for the sacrifice of either party, the second love would compel a skirl to throw himself, time and time again, between his crew and death, regardless of the consequences. They were family, all of them, and no force in heaven or hell, no creature that walked the earth, could stop him from ensuring that every last member of his crew returned safely home.
There were two kinds of love in the life of a skirl, and Hal Mikkelson was intimately familiar with both.