Fata Morgana

The boat’s control panel alarms sounded like a siren, calling for help, warning of immediate danger, beeping loudly and flashing in red.. And the sailor was in the kitchen area, making dinner. It was far from a fancy dinner, but the sailor insisted on making it special, he was, after all, cooking for someone special. He stood by that small kitchen table of his, fitting no bigger than two counters, and an arched space above them. The wooden walls were pinned with pictures of people he’d met, maps he’d travelled with, and trinkets he’d found on his adventures. The soft evening light illuminated his wrinkled face and chest medals, and the soft waves rocked the boat. It was a clear night, and the clock read 7:30.