Arun slept little and was in the tops when a pale yellow dawn lent a darker shade of itself to the smooth rolling water. The Atlantic was made of a translucent gold for the shortest of moments before the sun stole that peace and turned the day into a harsh and glaring reality. No sail or cloud touched the horizon in any direction. The Susan’s mainsails were full of the new day’s lively breeze and she moved along at a steady nine knots. From where Arun clung to the shrouds so far from the busy deck, the frigate seemed alive and intent on finding the other side of the southern horizon. Like a creature born in the sea, half fish and half bird, Susan had a grace that could not have been instilled in her by the hands of carpenters. Surely she would survive what lay on the ocean’s rim.
