The sail, well weathered in her years of sun and sea, had the appearance of an old-world map, as if she knew the way to a place of comforting peace.
In that billowed wind, in those gusts that carried our dreams far ahead of the dancing prow, the sails were as full as summer smiles.
The sail was as a sole that has journeyed upwards to many mountain peaks, worn and dirty, yet all the more beautiful for its travels and ready to ride the brine once more.
Into the storm marched the sail in its own silent way, as if by catching the prevailing wind, by being captured within its own serenity, it contained a form of eternal hope. It made such progress atop of the dancing waves, amid the gay sea foam, that every fraction of every moment was the boldest of photographs.
Let the sail in quiet times and carnival winds whisper to you of adventures that belong deep within the hero soul.
In a tin can of air, a bubble of souls, we set sail into a cradle of blues.