Waking up at the oars of a boat in heavy seas is not so surprising depending on how much you had to drink the night before. Even if continuity is not so readily apparent, nor logical, nor even at times continuous, those who answer “where you are” to the question “where am I?” should be made to wear a shirt made out of rats. (“Nice rat-shirt, bro” a smart-ass’ll remark. But the rats are getting hungry, which isn’t very nice at all.) You can’t just jump out of your boat and expect to wake up after you drown. You have to keep rowing and when you think you can’t row anymore is not even half way thru how much more rowing you have to do—and for what? Is it really because of three-too-many whiskeys? The sky overhead shudders and sobs. Pay no attention to the lights in the deep. Don’t pay any attention to those arcs of light flashing below, but stay perpendicular to the trough of the waves and keep eyes straight ahead fixed on the squall. Drinks, of course, may be synecdochic, but the ocean never is.
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