From the Crow's Nest, That April Night

The night was perfect on this unsinkable boat as the man in the crow’s nest kept watch. He fumbled to find his binoculars, but they were gone. “It’s okay,” he said, vowing he’d do the best that he could. The vessel sailed, The Atlantic dark as the sky; the waning crescent moon had already set. The surface of the water was as smooth as a mirror, and as he blinked his eyes he envisioned couples dancing in opulence below deck. Some mate had told him, they’d make the crossing in record time. He thought of his wife and children waiting back home, thinking once he’d make shore he’d wire them to say it was a glorious journey, indeed. Until something loomed ahead like a ghost. He squinted and squinted to see what it could be. He thought that it could be something or nothing; the mate had told him the waters were clear, but when he notified the captain, it was too late. He and 1500 others died that April night, but some lived to tell the tale. Three nights later the stars shone on his grave on the shores of Newfoundland.