I push off before dawn and drift minutes before pull-cording the engine to life. A gull squawks at the disturbance and disappears into the blue-black.
Cursed be the day on which I was born,the day when my mother bore me, let it not be blessed.
I hold the tiller of the trimmed-in outboard under my armpit and rub goose bumps flat. The only breeze is motion generated and the sun creeps up to deliver a day that is more at peace than the children juggling dreams in the villas along the shore.