I believe in the ocean curing all bad moods. I believe in the waves wiping away worries. I believe in seashells, bringing good luck. I believe in toes, in the sand grounding my soul. Still I refuse to let my emotions and worries take over my present, for things of the past take with them the future.

1857; Indians were rebelling, The East India Company was shutting down. Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, had asked for us to close up shop and move on; “Round up the last of our Naval Fleet”, she said, “it is time for the youth and age of our nation to come to port, starboard home”.

As our ship cut through the dense haar, I waited, prayed for the angel of death to take my soul; and he did. I, Milton Davies, was foolish enough to have my soul split between two people of the past - my best mate; Aaron Fern, and my Father; Dalton Davies.

Aaron and I had met on the job; dashing up and down ladders, to and fro the Powder Magazine and the upper deck, carting around our enormous cylindrical carriers filled to the brim with gunpowder. When my Father had taken over as Captain aboard The Lennox, I was forced into doing something. Naturally, I was chosen to lead the entirety of the ship’s powder monkeys.

While enemy sharp-shooters were busy tearing through our gunning flanks, all us powder monkeys were pressed against The Lennox’s gunwale, the soft, weathered wood curving against my right flank. As I pulled myself up to look for an opening to get my boys below the deck, I had caught the eye of an enemy shooter due to my seemingly neon yellow hair, a growing death warrant upon my head. Navy blue neckerchief askew, a runty little boy pulled me down as bullets peppered the starboard side of our ship. “Salutations, the name’s Aaron”, the boy yelled over the gunfire, “to be quite frank, boss, you seem to be quite the foozle.”

Indeed I was. I hadn’t bothered to get on good terms with anyone but Aaron - my mumbling cove of a fazey father was the only other exception. Over the years, Aaron and I had become good chuckaboos, we insulted each other, shared our hardtack and frequently traded our neckerchief toggles. Regardless, my only mistake in life seemed to be getting close to people, ceasing to understand the ways of death and fate. Aboard The Lennox, the concept of happiness seemed to have created a euphoric and seemingly utopian fantasy of my life, albeit a truly persistent one. Had I been aware of the utter reformation my reality was about to undergo, I would not have turned out to be such a hopelessly broken person.

CRACK! A strong, bright lightning bolt had torn The Lennox in half, I imagined Zeus, King of the Gods chuckling, envisioning our ship as a walnut case, trying his best to give it a nice, clean cut down its middle. “Oi, Davies!”, screamed Aaron, “quit being such a half-rat and help!” We may have been lost at sea for the past few months, yet no amount of grey skies and lightning could take away Aaron Ferns' thunder.

The first half of the ship had gurgled down into the irretrievable depths of the shark-infested waters, along with my Father and a good chunk of our crew. The wind and rain pounded on my shoulders, skin raw and red, I clung to the main mast, trying my best to get to the gunwale, where Aaron was hoisting a bag of supplies and himself over the water, abandoning ship.

Sopping black hair fanning his face, desperation getting the best of him, Aaron was torn off the port side gunwale, slipping into the icy folds of the current, lost forever in the dense haar.

I had been drifting for days when I was found on a battered strip of wood. Close to the shore of some distant island, I had passed out from the cold, tired of trying; trying to keep from freezing, desperately trying to forget my soul.