The seas were rough but that did not deter them. Wet ropes dug deeply into palms, the ripples in rough fibers matching the wiry muscles that strained in their necks, shoulders, arms.
Endlessly, the night dragged on. The ocean swelled and sunk and breathed and coughed all around them.
Still they kept their posts, secured to heaving decks with belts and makeshift harnesses.
When darkness finally waned and dawn returned, the contours of the mountains rose alongside them.
They shook the salt from reddened eyes and readied for the final passage.
Their boat was broken, but their hearts were home.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Ted Strutz
Na'ama Yehuda 
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