Troy
Three weeks had passed since we left Dianny, three weeks spent maneuvering through the shallow, unforgiving waters of the Southern Pass. There came a point in time where we were forced to cut the engines, pulling the underwater propellers back into the ship so they wouldn’t scrape against the seemingly endless reef that stretched for miles.
It was a slow, arduous journey, sailing with only one sail opened to the wind to ensure we had time to catch any dangers lurking in the shallows.
We passed a handful of shipwrecks; the rotting remains of both modern and ancient crafts sticking out of the shallow surf. It was an eerie place, even with the sun beating down on us and turning the water a clear, vivid turquoise. It would have been a tropical paradise if not for the ghosts whispering up from the water, telling us to turn around.