She flew the Jolly Roger high above her deck. The old wave-rider cut through the storm, her keel a fine steel blade in her captain’s hand. And that redoubtable old captain stood at the helm with her face pointed into the storm as she made for the eye. The Jolly Roger flapped and twisted in the gale, wrapping itself soaked around the mast. Then they burst into the silence. The eye of the storm loomed heavily, more fearsome even than the storm itself in its deathly silence. The captain let her gaze fall now to her ship, exploring every timber and beam and patch of canvas. Then she let out a sigh. A hatch opened and a small boy stepped out, his red hair bright against the blackened tar timbers and storm tossed sky.
“Nearly there, my buck. Nearly there.”