Black, broken, and drowned, small mountains are beneath us now. We had lived so long on the narrow lands, in the empty, savage sea; what was another catastrophe to us?
The dances of our ancestors speak of our coming to the wide seas, trading gods and godmonsters for relentless blue vistas, for soft green dots amongst hard-breaking waves. We were ever-ready for disaster.
If the cold broke too soon, the shoots would come too quickly, the rats would become fat, and their broods would overwhelm our fields. If the cold held too long, the violence of the warmth’s return came wrecking and laid heavy upon us. The smallest movements could herald disaster.
When the hateful stars turned loose the drowning pillars, we fled to our hill tops and hidden reserves. When the flow would not abate, we burned hollow new boats. Before the heights of our narrow lands grew wet, we had sailed away.
Now, we sometimes have seen other softmen, floating recklessly upon the unending sea. They have not seen us.
We have many provisions. We know the wide waters well.
While other softmen may have steered, sometimes, into catastrophe; we are born of it. We eat disaster and will always survive.
We are the wetmen. We sail towards the distant memory of true mountains.