Prayers for the Soul of a Dying Star: Prayers for the Soul, #1

By Sailor Stone

He knew. Going to sea alone and unprepared wasn't the wisest thing to do. But he was too tired to care. 
And so not knowing if anything ever mattered, he hoisted sail, hoping to find something to set a course for – something bright, like a guiding star. 
Then the gale hit, with its high winds, thundering waves, and cracking lightning, and all of the stars were obscured, and he figured this was a good way to go - drowning quiet in the din. 
But the island – uncharted - got in the way of even that.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Mystica Holdings LLC
• Release date: Mar 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524290641

Sailor Stone

Sailor Stone lives in the southern United States on the Atlantic coast where he stays busy writing novels and short stories in many genres, including Magical Realism, Coming of Age, Christian Literary, and Thrillers. His stories often feature protagonists that are trying to find their way in a cold and uncaring world, and where many times they get a slight - sometimes helpful, sometimes painful - nudge toward the truth from the supernatural.  Besides writing, he enjoys playing sports, photography, and studying the arts, philosophy, and religion. He likes discovering great books written by great authors, tasting new beers and wines, playing tennis, sitting in the back of a darkened nightclub and listening to a jazz trio take a long ride, being out on the open water in a boat, and worshiping quietly in the back of a church.  He considers the enjoyment of all the above to be multiplied exponentially by the accompaniment of his family and friends. For more about Sailor and his books go to www.sailorstone.com.

Book preview

1

PRAYERS FOR THE SOUL OF A DYING STAR

To be honest about it; he was in over his head. He’d already been thinking this before the lightning struck his masthead and ripped the main and jib sails to shreds. He knew his boat had suffered even more damage from the lightning strike but he was too busy fighting to keep the boat upright and afloat through the high winds and big waves of the gale to assess how bad the damage was.

One month earlier, Grip Taylor, lying on his bunk, in the darkness of his boat cabin, on the night before he was to set sail from Miami, in the most lucid moment that he’d ever experienced, became frighteningly aware that he wasn’t up to the journey on which he so desperately wanted to embark. It all became crystal clear in his mind: that as a man of the seas, a sailor—he was but a neophyte.

But that insight didn’t stop him from going on his journey.

It wasn’t like he had anything to look forward to in his life as it was and when he’d gone sailing for the first time ever, in the spring of the previous year, he’d found himself instantly addicted to the sound of seawater slapping against his hull and the sensation of a blind wind torquing his sails and propelling him across the open water. Then soon after those first days under sail—the thought of casting off the lines from the dock and going on a long solo voyage through the islands of the Caribbean sea became to him like what he imagined a crackhead must feel as he waits for the pipe to be lit and handed to him—it was something he just had to do and he couldn’t wait to do it.

He never expected he’d be happy again, but he hoped maybe to at least… to at least not be so sad all the time. The vast ocean was his only chance. And if he didn’t make it—well, no big deal, right?

Now, back in the moment and deep inside the storm, the sky was dark and the waves were much bigger than his seamanship. Perhaps more time sailing, another season at least on the open waters gaining experience and knowledge, would have benefited him. Grip was startled by the smashing clap of thunder as lightning struck the top of a wave rolling by him to the port side of his boat, the Sea Tripper, and he doubted that in this enormous gale even ten more seasons would have helped. He was in a dire strait.

Ahead, just off to starboard, was the black shadow of a small island. It was more of a large rock jutting from the sea really, and Grip was working the wheel and the small motor of his boat to keep from being grounded on its shoals as he passed it by. His GPS said it shouldn’t be there, or rather, it wasn’t on his GPS—it didn’t exist—this should be clean sea, deep water, no reefs, and certainly no island. Grip was pissed at his GPS. He sure needed it to be working correctly during these hours in the storm; he needed a good line on his chart, a point in the right direction.

He gritted his teeth and turned hard on the wheel keeping the small rocky island just to his starboard, the wind and waves almost overpowering the motor and bashing his boat against the rocky shoals as he passed by, and then—immediately before him—was the shadow of a much longer and higher island. He looked again at his GPS, then to his charts. There was nothing on them to indicate he was near any islands. Perhaps he was lost. Not only did he come up short as a man of the sea in manning his boat, but he was coming up short as a navigator. He sucked. And he might die for it.

There was something. What was that roar above the wind? He let it come to him. He heard the sound of waves, not rolling, but crashing and exploding, and he saw the white shadow of a surf line between him and the large island. It was a reef.

The air went out of his lungs as he intuited the trigonometry of the wind and waves, the reef, and his boat. He was running aground.

He began readying his boat for the violent event as fast as he could scramble about the deck.

Now, with everything that was loose thrown down in the cabin of the boat and the life raft inflated and