Through the listless fog a pair of eyes scan the old chart. It’s depths and contours worn with years of use. A finger traces an arc across the surface pushing dust to the side on its way to a faded inlet. The channel should be there. Yes, it should. The parchment crinkles then rests under the weight of a half drawn flask of Ole Gibleys. Eyes peer forward once again. Fog. Only fog. Where is the damn channel?
I really like one of the comments from Flickr: “Cheap gin is confidence and better than knowledge.”
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