Bitter, biting, brackish.

Bone ache pounding in my arms

Head heavy, rowing with all my might.

I want to go home.


Row by row on this tiny boat

Never stopping unless we find it.



Grey tail flipping and flopping.

Painfully reaching for my spear

Finger numb and unfeeling from the cold.


I ready myself.

Shaking at the thought, of a bowl of warm stew.

I strike!


A spray of blood and a terrible whine

Death rattle ringing in my ears,

Drowned out by the sound of cheering.


A trail of blood lead fom where we were.

A hat and coat now being made 

From the soft fur on this now dead

Sea cow.