The wind in your hair . . .
The lapping of the waters . . .
The cry of a bird . . .
The cry of a bird? Perhaps land draws near.
Sure enough, a shadow distinguishes itself from the horizon. You tack skillfully, and the wind takes you towards a large island. Following some instinct, you head for the eastern side of the island.
The light of the moon shows you a beach, flat sand nestled up against a looming butte. You sail straight in, making for that distinct pale patch luminous against the surrounding darkness.
Three piers jut out into the water. You moor your boat, and step out.
(Last reformed by the breeze on 3/28/02002)