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By Tristan Jones

Invoice Conan, a middle-aged adventurer, has entered a 30,000 mile solo race world wide within the sloop Josephine, seeing it as his final probability to win prestige and luck. Risking the last word attempt of ability, power and patience, Conan will stick with his direction around the giant expanse of the treacherous Atlantic, towards the only catastrophe a seaman such a lot dreads. Overboard and by myself at the open sea, his fight could have just one end...

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Ruth, quietly, sharply. “Jesus Christ, Conan, you’re fifty-six years previous. You’ve with regards to performed every little thing. You’ve proved your self many times. all of your lifestyles you’ve been proving your self, all of the manner from—what used to be it? —ordinary seaman to lieutenant, Royal bloody Navy…” “Please, Ruth. ” “All that point at sea…in small crusing boats…how decades was once it? ” “Twenty-two. ” “And you continue to haven’t had sufficient? ” “That was once more often than not supply trips…. This race is anything particularly special…” “What approximately us, Conan? ” Conan laid down his knife and fork and took a swig of beer (his head threshed back, yet weakly). Her eyes have been appealing. “It’s just for a number of brief months, Ruth…. simply this one final time…” He appeared in brief clear of her. there have been men, either of their mid-thirties, one bearded, the opposite seriously mustachioed, either wearing black leather-based caps and jackets, either seriously festooned with chains. He seemed again at Ruth. Their eyes met back. She smiled. Conan regarded clear of her back, to 3 blank-eyed steers making their technique to a desk. all of sudden, one of many top Texas red meat steers spotted Conan observing him. The animal glared at him in sullen hostility. “Is it the risk, Conan? ” “Partly…there’s that, too. must be self sustaining, Ruth. the way in which i used to be mentioned. simply don’t ever are looking to must be within the scenario of asking you for anything…” “Earn reliable cash writing? ” “Yes, yet i'm 100 and fifty-six…never get an opportunity like this back, Ruth…. no longer for an important race…” “How lengthy is that this race, besides? ” “Looks like it’ll be round ten months. ” “You’re mad, Conan. you recognize that? Do you’re completely stark-raving sane? yet i like you, you sane, off-the-wall bloody limey! ” “It’s o.k. with you, then, Ruth? you could come to Lisbon with me? ” “No, it’s now not o.k., Conan, and also you goddamwell are aware of it, and certain, I’ll come…and i'd simply be right here if you happen to come again. Why do you do it, Conan? Don’t you recognize, can’t you get it into that silly head of yours that the time for heroes is gone? Why the hell couldn’t you be a—a yacht membership race-coordinator, for God’s sake, or—or—a—a—a citadel pheasant keeper? …” Conan glanced on the outdated half-model hulls at the wall, their varnish now dulled with years of publicity to the steam and smoke of the eating place. The imaginative and prescient of a blackboard flashed by…on it was once chalked in enormous letters:…the subtlety, the flexibleness, the secret of sail—the countless style and the incalculable complexity of the forces which are harnessed to serve the sailor’s objective: the wayward wind that resists all mastery, the would-be whinge sea, the frail, fierce phantom that is the send herself, and that is continuously whatever greater than the sum of her myriad components. Her strength, whilst restraining and urgent—the glossy, reluctant fantastic thing about her hull less than the kingdom of the mute sails she wears as she sails clear of you, additional and further…and additional clear of you… Conan lower back to semiconsciousness, and back he attempted to half his cracked lips, because the solar began to slowly crucify him.

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