You, delivered by boat, to now, slept below deck, forgetting you were above the sea, held high above the ocean bed by entwined, long, wet arms, passing your tin can among themselves and forwards. You climb up above, dizzy, you look through your telescope, to behind, far away, it looks small, and perfect from here, you forget why you left, why you set off, or whether you even did at all. You peer overboard at the cold blanket below, glance upward at the canopy of cloud above and catch a survivor from the sun. You ponder how  many sunsets and sunrises and islands and attolls you missed during your hours or weeks or months asleep in your cabin. You take the wheel, ready to search for land.