No wonder then, why there has been a dead calm all summer. The hurricanes that blow through here are not just a footfall team. But this hurricane season I have not seen the palm fronds move a quarter inch to the left or right. Low, stationary drones do not fare well on a windy night. Imposter stars locked into low positions like it windless. Of course they had to delete the breezes, because their cover-clouds would all blow away.
I felt, rather, that "hurricane central" had become the Sargasso. And couldn't help but think of the sailors who tasted both feast and famine under sail. Here I was with a galleon fulla Spanish ponies heading for my new holdings in the West. And not a breeze did blow. Where am I gonna go? Only so much water on board. Horses drink a lot of it. Atmosphere is at a stand-still. How is a man to conquer new lands without his Rocinante?
Ever jettisoned horses in a dead calm when you can't sail away from them? Don't put yourself in that position, sailor. Doing it for the money always ends badly. Ask the trophy wife of a billionaire.
Same galleon fleet heading back to España now -- glutted with gold. Oh Atocha! Didn't see it coming. But you heard the rumble, didn't you o' Capitán. The approaching tempest turned azure to slate. Damn the thunder. You are in the sights -- plunder cast asunder!
Now you think you own the hurricane. And the calm. Forget not your lessons of centuries past. Lest more of your malignant work be asunder cast.