In the morning, the sky was clear as we left the port. The sunlight was so dazzling it felt like the heat was seeping behind my eyelids. Waving back at the voices seeing us off, I muttered a short "Here we go" on the deck.

By noon, the wind was calm and the ship's speed was perfect. A bottle of liquor began to circulate naturally, and a celebratory mood took hold. One of the crew led a toast. Laughter echoed across the deck, and I looked at the faces of the comrades I had gathered, tilting my cup. It felt less like it had been a long journey and more like the real work was finally starting.

Hours later, the quality of the air changed. The wind direction suddenly became erratic, and a wall of clouds began to appear on the horizon. There had been no sign of this in the preliminary route surveys. Roche immediately set down his drink, headed for the helm, and shouted. ⠀ ⠀ 　　　　　　　"Furl them! Furl everything!" ⠀ ⠀ The speed at which the wind intensified was abnormal. Before the crew could even finish reefing the sails, the hull began to tilt. I ordered those who could evacuate to head below deck, and I remained on deck until the very end, shouting instructions. "We're still okay, stay calm—" He kept his voice up, but I didn't know how far it actually reached.

The rain turned sideways, crushing my vision. I thought I heard a comrade scream. The boards beneath my feet creaked, and there was a sensation of my body floating. ⠀ ⠀ ...After that, I remembered nothing.