217/365 03/27/2026

He died up amongst the rigging. Captain’s boy and lover. Sent scampering to the only high ground on he sea: the masts. Up and up and up he climbed on sleet-slick rigging to the crow’s nest and peered out into the dark. But for naught. There was no light, no lightning. Nothing but inky black and the icy squall and the ship’s pitch and roll and unsure footing. A small yelp and grasp and nothing.