(no subject)
They are wild men now. The wind has torn the ribbon from Jack's hair and Tom's is not far behind. When they turn to laugh at each other again the wind brings Jack's hair across his face like a shadow and it's not until he turns to face the bow, the horizon, the distant promise of a sail, that his smile comes free again.
The deck below is spotted with clusters of anxious and eager men. They are all straining to see the quarry. Jack wants to point it out to them, to show them the sail, the wake, the glint of her paint in the sun. But their horizon is four miles away, five at the swell of a wave.
Here, in the nest of the t'gallant rigging the horizon stretches ten miles or better and Jack feels that there is nothing he can't know, nothing he can't dare, no ship he cannot spy. He sees that same look on Tom's face and feels the whip of the wind dragging at the swell of his sleeves, pulling at them, at his hair, like at wings. If he dared to lean forward, to let go the mast Jack wonders if the wind might carry even his great weight away.
But to leave his ship, never. Soon enough they'll race each other to the deck and the crew will beat their way to the horizon Jack and Tom can promise them is there. But not just yet. For right now they are wild men with their hair free and the wind makes Jack feel like an immortal Icarus, with the t'gallant spar a safe distance from the sun.