There would have been a mean turn eventually, once the creaking started. The fog drew it out grey actually, stuck fast in the wood from the old ship of dreams listing among the tangle jangle of it all.  Years it took of story telling bringing the ship around to this side. We got the latitude right I remember, but the clock must’ve been out since we ended up on the wrong island.  No welcome committee, no dancing girls, no laughing playing among the cock fires and shells. A few hundred miles out in thousands, but the end of our dream when the ship couldn’t hold out any longer.  Here among the jangling, the impenetrable scream of the jangling.  Where water and fog sapped the normal bright colors of the birds into a brown grey light.

By day it was that disturbing light, but by night under the stars, the jangling started longer and stronger. The sounds echoing across the dimly lit bay, with the poor broken sails flapping in a mild breeze.  Not quite but an oppressive strangling of the night across the bay.

And there we were stranded by the turn of the jangle.

Photo Maharajah.. Tersiiska:Flickr .. used with permission.