Like—if this were a movie, someone would've called it cinematic. Reality? Absolutely not. Reality was my soul ejecting from my body like it had an escape clause.
I was wet. Freezing. Cold down to the bones. Hair ruined—RUINED—by sea spray and betrayal. My boots slipped, my dignity vanished, and whatever god watched over sailors had clearly clocked out for lunch.
Then—We screamed. Not the pretty kind. Not the heroic kind. This was the kind of screaming you do when you realize you trusted wood, ropes, and optimism with your life.
It felt like being strapped into a medieval roller coaster—no seatbelts, no safety briefing, and way too much unresolved trauma.
A LOT of screaming. The ship tilted so hard half the crew slid across the deck like discarded laundry. People collided. Someone prayed. Someone else cursed their ancestors. This was nothing like the movies. Trust me. A spiraling wall of water—the size of a mansion—rose up and slammed into us.
