By Rob Laymon  
 

     We are at sea. We are at sea. We are at sea. We are at sea and all contact is lost with land, all reassuring glimpses of peaks, green hills, low houses, white distant beaches. We are in our tub now released into the water, our faces around the rim staring inward at each other, questioning. There is nothing but the rising and setting of the sun to signal our time, and even these obscured by clouds. The monotony of the sea does not care how much you've paid for this privilege of a view from its center. The Atlantic spreads borderless and sullen around the full sweep of the compass, the Atlantic gray and vast. The Atlantic, once and future. The Atlantic, at the beginning and at the end, now and forever, endless miles of ocean.