I did not have my Father’s love of the seas. He would step upon a ship as if he were walking through the gate of a familiar garden. It mattered not if he had ever been on board the craft before, he could easy read its history and the love (or lack thereof) that its crew showered upon it. Perhaps I did not have enough spider in me for, while I could recognize each knot and follow each rope up the masts, I spent little time thinking of them. I knew which way the wind was blowing but I could not tell if it carried fog or rain or greater waters. To my Father, all ships were women and he gave them the respect that he gave all the fairer sex. To me, a ship was construct, often beautiful and elegant, but not a feminine creature. Still, I knew something to be wrong on the Svetlana within an hour of it clearing port.