Brisk brine spray comes down like heavy rain, thudding as the deck rolls in heavy wave scoops. Fumbling on the slippery wood rails, her bare feet scrabbling for familiar plank, she finds her balance and the ship finishes turning, the buffet of waves no longer hitting the boat sidelong.

That night on deck she watches the stars. Below, the thump of the lulling primordial sea hitting hull. With each crash of wave and stir of foam, the deep darkness calls and then a caress of wayward spray falls onto you. Above are the bright lights of the stars and the dark night which speaks with the black sea. The moon is waning full and shades the clouds startlingly. Darks and lights of cloud vivid, vaguely you are aware of the boat rolling, rocking.

She turns to you. "My mother used to tell me stories about boats sailing in the sky. The floating cities they'd dock at, the people who lived within." The deck of the boat is vaguely damp but the weather is warm. The wood has been beaten and smoothed by thousands of footsteps. "Imagine flying up there, how wonderful it would be..." She trails off in thought. "But perhaps between the earth and sky is the best place to be."

The waves wash over themselves below, the boat rocks. A grubby smell of salt. A draft wanders across you two, the soft child of some thermal currents moving in the ways of the long, deep sea.

Figures: 10 30 second, 5 1 minute, 2 5 minute, 1 10 minute and 1 25 minute poses.