Tomas frowned at the intrusion of the voice, because it had visited him from time to time over the last few hours, and he feared he was going mad. There was no-one else aboard his self-built boat, no-one to talk to; but more importantly, no-one to help him. He sighed, his elbows propped upon gunwales which bucked in leisurely fashion to the rhythm of the waves, staring out at a featureless, seemingly endless sea. Yes, the view was beguiling in its way, he supposed: wavelets capped by the pink reflection of a rising sun, a placid seascape in all of its might and glory. Only one prospect might have excited him more. Where was land?
“I don’t understand it.” Tomas murmured, keeping quiet as if he was afraid the author of his inner voice might hear. “I couldn’t be more than an hour from shore.”
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