I'm tired. Tired of the corkscrewing pitches of the boat, tired of being unable to sleep, to really sleep, tired of getting it wrong, tired of my vain hopes for storybook happiness, tired of the nausea, tired of the cramped cabin, tired of being helpless, tired of hoping it will be like when we met, tired of the Pirate's dismissive grin: this is nothing, you should have been there off Molucca. I'm tired of not understanding her and wishing I did, tired of wanting to live long enough to smell land again in the darkness before dawn, to see the creamy line of a breakwater at first light, to steer this once-glorious boat into calm waters and tie up at the first pier, never mind if we have permission, and stagger from the dock to solid ground, lay down on the earth and feel the immense deliciousness that it isn't moving. But we're far from solid ground and I need to get on with the story. I'm not sure where it should begin, but what I remember is my friend Coltrane gazing up from his black-and-white photos of our street rallies and commenting, "There she is again."