We cut the mooring lines
and quietly paddled into the bay.
The ocean dared us onward
there was nothing left to say.
The stars, those distant travelers,
silently guided us on our way.

“Looks pretty rough,” old Johnson noted,
and spit defiantly into the sea.
“We’ll never make it,” the young ensign asserted,
echoing my own thoughts back to me.
“Shut your ugly trap,” the captain retorted,
“and just think of your family.”

Then we reached the breakers.
Like monsters they tossed us all about.
My clothes were soaked from the spray,
the taste of sea salt was in my mouth.
“Pull harder, you sons of bitches,”
I heard the captain shout.

So we pulled for God and country,
we pulled as hard as ever could be,
and then, just when all seemed lost,
the ocean seemed to set us free.
The water was suddenly eerily calm
as far as the eye could see.

"What now?” Johnson asked,
as he rested on his oar.
I glanced back to see a campfire
still burning on the shore.
“Now we rest a little,” the captain replied,
“before we row some more.”

I looked up at the stars
feeling very small and alone.
The ensign, who was staring back at the land,
let out a most pitiful moan.
Then the captain turned us into the dark
and said, “Now, lads, we row for home.”