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To Laura Craig Mason's previous piece
Seasick Green water doesnít hold romance when you have emptied your lunch into its mystery. Watching particles of something you once enjoyed break up then sink away into the churning waves frenzied by the rudders kills any hope of a grandiose life at sea. You name the boat its shape, size, or intent and Iíve puked off of its bow cried in its belly and prayed at its deck before parents god and sea spirits to touch land again. Sailors bother me so free to give up land and family: not attached to anything buoyed by the sea. Pirates manage to perplex and bore me in the very same second. Too many romance novels and close encounters with barrel chested men with bad fashion sense could have caused this. Because he sailed in Jumped ship to ship story to story woman to woman and his cavalier stare and smile failed to quell the unease of the one woman he couldnít woo: a daughter land locked tired of rocking and following and jumping story to story boat to boat. Tired of all of the unnecessary unsteady footing and sloppy deck of avoidance.
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