47) On board the Black Swan, alone, is the finest time I've passed on this earth. Seemed dreary at first, but not this windy morn. Solitude is my surname that only here my genes may fully express. Well said, you incoherent wonder! I will explore my freshly minted world with an open mind. Firstly, I run the decks, back and forth, gripping ropes to swing, turning the great wooden wheel, and I found a way to run an assortment of colorful flags up and down a pole designed for the task of signaling and swearing hopes and fears to others. Such pleasures did my body have under the sun. Then I visit the upper reaches, the pilot's cabin or preserve. I am much higher up, well above the deck. I can see the world in its entirety, blue and gray depths, all heaving and roiling, fringed by mountains at a great remove. Magellan, Columbus, the mighty Cook, though a lowly yatchsman, I assume their blissful countenance. Yet I remain stony so as not to disturb the crew with unsettling romance. Great beasts swim just under us, to continue. The bow shudders, planks groan in play. How beautiful the sounds of my Black Swan so repulsed by the ocean, like a splinter in the inflamed finger of an angry child.
Sadly, I also see the hold, my former prison, where down in darkness rots dead men who, in another time, I could have called mates. It is only right that I toss them overboard, bury them at sea, as is the mariner's way. I descend the pilot's perch, one always must, from deck to hold. Down the ladder I see them heaped. Their graceless tangle is my doing. Whether repentance, remorse, or artlessness, my profane doings must be undone. I pick each up, throw them over my shoulders. They are so heavy when empty of life, they are filled with bad air and omens and busted bones, their stiff limbs curse and curse. To be dead, rusted shut, all screws stripped, shoes a'bursting with swelled feet, rings cut into fat fingers, oh, the dessicated eyes that once wept at cruelty and the sweet things of life, to be dead is stupid. All show. The dead need sensitive handlers or they are lost twice. These two are fortunate they have me. I see their loss. I will remember them.
They do not splash when they hit the water. Waves merely crest over them, and they are gone. I say the words 'goodbye' and 'goodbye' for each. Short, to the point. My day goes on.