Lines of fire stretched across the sky.
I gripped the tiller more tightly, but my sails were flapping anyways.
A light drizzle began to patter against my rain poncho and I shivered slightly. The wind stopped. I stood and released the tiller.
The sea was choppy, but the surface was like glass stretched and molded into fantastic shapes. A dragon grinned at me.
I ducked below. Gloomy and gray. I fumbled for the coffee pot and refilled a dirty mug. Sip. Needed sugar; bowl was empty. Went above.
A seagull was perched on the rail. I leaned against the hatch and took another sip. It took flight.
Gray bird, gray sea, gray sky. Lines. Distant thunder. Empty mug. I threw it overboard.
The radio crackled. The lights were out.
Wind again. Harder rain. I sat and grabbed the tiller.
I looked back. A reddish glow on the horizon. It was noon.
She never had liked the trips, not really. The sea was her mother-in-law.
My watch had stopped. A glassy serpent winked.
La fin du monde. I felt fine.