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

By noon, the wind was calm and the ship's speed was perfect. A bottle of liquor began to circulate spontaneously, creating a small celebratory atmosphere. One of the crew led a toast. Laughter echoed across the deck, and as I tilted my cup, I looked at the faces of the comrades I had gathered one by one. It felt less like it had been a long journey and more like the real journey was finally beginning.

A few 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, while I remained on deck until the very end, shouting instructions. "We're still okay, stay calm—" He kept his voice raised, but he didn't know how far it actually reached.

The rain turned into a horizontal barrage, crushing my vision. I thought I heard the screams of my crew. The boards beneath my feet creaked, and I felt a sensation of floating. ⠀ ⠀ ...After that, I remembered nothing.