A ship named BEING CONTENT rolls over a wooden buoy.
The BEING CONTENT wades itself into a thunderstorm between the jetties.
The BEING CONTENT is nailed twice by lightning between the jetties.
The crew leaves the ship with no way to anchor in a storm, but the captain stays.
Three weeks later, the BEING CONTENT is at the bottom of the sea one-hundred knots past the jetties, where crabs claw at the jib of a water-logged captain.
It was once assumed that the ocean could consume any vessel floating, but early advances in shit-talking fucked that up for the captain.
“The jetties are only a decent place for the bodies of the indiscreet,” yelled the captain, naked, strapped to the broken mast.
“I picture myself not only as a man who can tread water with boulders tied to his ankles, but as a man who can sink like a fat bitch made of sandstone.”
And those were not his last words.
He detached himself from the mast and stood alone on the deck.
He walked to the side of the ship.
The ship sailing itself past the jetties.
God barely pissing on his sunken head, fish jumping up into the ship, the captain stumbled back with his chest heavy and stammered to the sea–
“I always wanted to catch a marlin.”
And the BEING CONTENT steered itself three weeks into the sun.