Home is far behind, and there is no thought of turning back. The sea is solid grey with the white flecks of breaking foam. The sail cracks and billows with wind, taking us in the right direction. There is no need for the paddles today. The men are happy because they can rest their calloused hands and weary shoulders. Our twin prows bounce on the chop and the spray leaps and travels half the length of the vessel, stinging against my cheeks. The strong masts creak and give with the breeze. The captain sometimes runs to check and reassure himself that the lashings holding the masts in place remain tight and true. We come, towards the cold. The navigator is at one with the steering oar. His feet are planted on the boards; his dark calves are firm, his eyes aimed somewhere over the horizon. We come, and all I can worry about is my poor hair. When we waved goodbye to home and sailed away from the warm tides, my hair was still black and sleek. Now it has become thick and twined together by the salt, and its ends almost flaxen in colour like sailing ropes.
What do You think about Huia Short Stories 10 (2013)?
