Standing now, timid at first, as beginnings tend to be; but without fear this time. Days gone are fragment postcard picture, retelling; past tense and without authority. The island retreats and I feast on new discovery, yet to unroll. Sails stiffen with time's promise. My hand shields the sun's critique. Thirst mounts as I near the destination. The wind carries regret and wipes clear all the haze that stifled my vision. Freshened by its speed, forward always, til completion; I wait hurriedly.