I clung to the mast as the sea tossed them from wave crest to furrow and back again. This was not what I'd thought it would be when I volunteered to document the tallship's maiden voyage.
The curse of the weatherman'd struck at the worst of times. The forecasters had confidently predicted firm winds but that the real storm would happen far south of the ship. They'd proudly proclaimed fair weather for the day's sailing with winds at our backs and sun overhead.
I wondered what they thought, staring at their radars and maps, tallying numbers, crunching data. Did their programs pop up and blink, "The ship is doomed. Prepare the search parties."
I watched another dark shape slide from the security of the ship into the churning water. Another lost. Wind tore at my clothes and I clung to the mast, tied fast, clutched my camera and documented as I was hired. The camera was waterproof, attached to a float. Someone would know, would find, our story.
My name is Bethany

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AislingWeaver (joined about 12 years ago)
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Aisling Weaver has been plucking at the threads of dreams for decades but only recently has dared capture the senses with words. She writes from a tiny corner of the world known to few on stolen time and borrowed inspiration. By day chained to a desk when set free she delves the shadowy recesses where desire, need, lust and passion meet the spectrum of emotion.

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storm ending photographer lost at sea

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