your ship.

You got this ship from someone, leaving the port comes with it. Get your ship ready. Mount your flag.

Stock her with food, water and nets and timber and iron and ropes. You never know when you may need it.

Say your goodbyes: teary-eyed, yet grim in determination. Haul in the anchor holding you to the port.

Set sail and plunge ahead. Cross the bay which is safe. You enter waters familiar; where you meet ships returning to shore. You exchange notes, and maps, of the ocean. How vast is it? Will the wind hold? Are there sea-monsters? Mysterious islands, perhaps? How is the current? Will i catch lots of fish? Are the stars bright enough? So on and so forth. 

Sail straight ahead. See stars you never saw at the port. Colours that overwhelm senses: blue and grey and green and dusk orange and night purple. Tackle water itself: choppy, churny or churlish. Man decks yourself. Know your rudder, keel and strength of the hull. Never overestimate height of the crow's nest.

But always keep your sails high. Sometimes they will flutter; most of the times you will need your crew to row the hardest. Treat them well. 

Set your own course. Any course. Don't leave port knowing where you are going. Answer the ocean's call.

Go beyond the horizon. 

On your sailing, remember to pick your first mate, your second mate and your cook.

Never be sure of the crew though. Some will leave disgruntled, some for newer ships, some shall raise mutiny and force you to offload them; and yet some will simply jump ship. But always remember to have your first and second mate and cook stay. Ditto for the wind in the sails, and wood to keep her afloat.  

The ocean will offer itself to you. Sometimes an island, sometimes a gull. And always fish to catch. Large and small, silvery and bright. Remember, your catch is your prized possession. Store it in brine.

Trade it to buy things for your ship. Sometimes you may just trade for a bigger ship, or bigger fish.

But there's no escapin' the trade. There's no escapin' pirates either. 

On your journey, make sure you visit many harbours. Port of calls are essential to cure seasickness, and moods. You need to repair just as much your ship does. Go ashore. See, smell, eat, feel and meet new things. Show them gratitude for their liquor and beds.

Never tease, taunt or provoke the natives. Do not lose your galleon over their gall. 

Days and months and years and decades later, you will know the ocean like the back of your wrinkled palm. You shall have just enough fish and brine. Sometimes more. You will notice rotting timber and brittle steel. The sails patched beyond count, and the ropes frayed and dirty. Your first, and second mate and the cook and crew will want you to stop looking beyond the horizon. Always know when fish is enough; where the horizon ends. Do not be stubborn to count all the stars in the sky. 

Joseph Frost, ENDEAVOUR AT SUNSET
(oil on canvas) 

When you know this, look for the lighthouse. And when you see the light, you will know how long it has been on the ocean on your ship and where your port of call will be. Or should be. For most of us, must be. 

You take your ship and sail towards it. Let the light guide you ashore.

Dock your ship, let her sails fall. Man the deck for one last time and order anchor to be dropped. Lower your flag. Acknowledge your first, and second mate and the cook. Reward your crew. Then step down and leave her. Don't look back. 

Give away your ship, but keep the captain's logs. Let her sail again under a new someone, a new flag. 

Let someone leave the port and chart a new course.