The sea turned.
Not suddenly,
but with the slow violence
only the ocean understands.

What began in celebration-
sails cutting through salt light,
crews chasing wind and horizon-
endend in voices lost
beneath screaming skies.

We were there.
HMS Overijssel,
a shadow in the storm,
metal steadier than canvas,
but not untouched.

We moved where the wind drove us,
eyes sweeping over swells
as high as houses,
searching for movement,
for life clinging to debris,
for limbs raised not in victory
but in desperation.

Some we pulled aboard,
their hands cracked with salt and cold,
their eyes still full of sails.
They spoke little.
They didn't need to.
We understood.

Others came differently-
silent,
their journey ended
not at a finish line
but in the arms of strangers.

We laid them down gently.
No cheers.
No flags.
Only the hum of engines,
and the storm
still roaring in our blood.

Even now,
years later,
the sea sometimes sounds
like a voice I didn't save.