The Cut
My eyelids are puffy with sleep and slow to respond as I regain consciousness, not remembering what I dreamt or if I dreamt at all. Forcing my eyes open, I look up to where the boom sways above me, blotting out the midday sun, then returning it to my face. Squeezing mucus from my eyelashes, I peel my body from the ribbed floorboards with my head feeling like it’s filled with cement and my throat like a stretched overinflated inner tube.
Standing at bow, I look to the horizon and see that the marine layer has backed off along with my soul-draining nausea, and for that, I am grateful. I sense that I’ve drifted south, and I have, as Great Beach rolls by on my starboard. It would appear that, during my downtime, I recrossed the Bar without incident, perhaps even with the help of the
