Clear the Dicks
The Art of Sailing Beyond Bullshit
A Disclaimer for Snowflakes:
Dear Haters, Thanks for your many insights, but if you’d have taken the time to actually follow the links to the TATANKA project articles, you’d have seen that my creative process, including collaboration with AI, is stated openly and without apology. If that offends you, that’s your existential problem. I conceive, outline, direct, compose, interpret, refine, edit and integrate all content. The AI does any remaining heavy lifting. I use AI the same way every “real writer” uses a computer to share their supposedly “human” content (often questionable, but not ironically). The difference is that I leverage evolution when I see it. Instead of judging others for evolving, perhaps try evolving yourself. Or remain left behind.
Part I – Embarkation: Cast Off the Lines
Boston Harbor smelled of diesel and salt and new beginnings, the sort of metallic hope that comes when a ship’s horn cuts through morning fog.
Marina stood at the rail clutching a small leather journal and a paper cup of coffee gone cold. The cup had lipstick on its rim, coral-pink and decisive, a mark she hadn’t worn in years.
The ship before her, The Celestine, was a floating contradiction: a city with chandeliers and water slides, promising escape and connection in equal measure. She’d booked passage to Lisbon under the pretext of “creative recovery,” but truthfully, she was there to clear her life of obstruction.
To clear the decks.
Or, as she’d renamed the process in a fit of gallows humor while packing: Clear the Dicks.
She smiled at the phrase again now. The word made the crewmen look away, embarrassed, though she’d said nothing aloud. But she meant it in the broadest possible sense: every barnacle that clung to her hull, each energy vampire, each self-doubt disguised as duty, was a Dick to be cleared.
The boarding crowd jostled and murmured, a sea of carry-ons and contradictions. A man in a seersucker suit spoke too loudly about venture capital. Two women argued about gluten. Somewhere a child dropped an ice cream, wailing like a foghorn. Marina breathed in deeply, tasting diesel, sugar, and freedom.
The gangway tilted slightly under her boots. She felt the ship’s pulse, the vibration of engines awakening. “All aboard,” someone shouted, and she obeyed.
The Journal
Her cabin was mid-ship, small but elegant: teakwood desk, porthole view, a single orchid in a glass vase like a punctuation mark. She placed her journal on the desk, opened to a fresh page, and wrote in block letters:
THE TWELVE DICKS
A Practical Guide to Liberation at Sea
Below that she listed empty numbers, one through twelve.
Then, beneath them:
“Freedom is the right to steer one’s own vessel.” – Epictetus
She traced the quote with her fingertip. Epictetus, the old Stoic slave-turned-philosopher, would’ve understood this voyage. He’d known about ballast, what weighed you down, what you had to jettison before you could sail true.
A knock sounded. “Lifeboat drill in fifteen minutes, ma’am.”
“Copy that,” she said automatically, and laughed. She wasn’t military, yet the formality felt right. This voyage was a kind of campaign. The sea outside her porthole glittered like an uncut gem, and she whispered to it, “Let’s see what you wash up, Captain.”
Setting Sail
On deck, passengers clustered under the bright banners of departure. The harbor stretched wide, and beyond it, the Atlantic, a shifting philosophy written in waves.
Marina leaned against the rail as Boston receded, the skyline softening into watercolor grays. The ship’s horn bellowed, a sound like the universe clearing its throat.
She thought of Simone de Beauvoir: “One is not born, but rather becomes, a woman.”
Marina revised it silently: One is not born, but rather becomes, a captain.
The first breeze out of the harbor carried a whiff of brine and possibility. Somewhere inside her, the mutineers, the chorus of doubts, obligations, and small cruelties, began to stir. She could feel them already trying to grab the wheel.
Not this time.
She took her journal to the deck café, ordered another coffee, and opened to page one.
The Mansplainer Dick
He arrived before the coffee cooled.
White polo shirt, mirrored sunglasses, wristwatch large enough to measure tides.
“Pardon me,” he said, sliding into the chair across from her without invitation. “That’s not a great spot for writing, you know. Glare’ll blind you.”
Marina looked at him over the rim of her cup. “Then it’s fortunate I’m not photographing.”
“Oh?” He leaned forward, squinting as if studying a specimen. “What’re you working on?”
She closed her notebook halfway, guarding the title. “Philosophy.”
His laugh was gentle but patronizing, the sound of surf breaking on styrofoam. “Bit heavy for vacation, isn’t it?”
“Not really. I’m practicing Stoicism.”
He smirked. “Ah, self-help for people who think they’re Marcus Aurelius.”
She let him talk; that was the art of Socratic irony, let arrogance tangle itself. He discoursed on mindfulness apps and male CEOs who “loved the Stoic vibe.” When he paused to sip his latte, she asked lightly, “Which virtue of Stoicism do you find hardest to live by?”
He blinked. “Virtue?”
“Temperance, courage, justice, or wisdom.” She smiled sweetly. “There are four.”
His sunglasses reflected her back at herself: calm, amused, unbothered. He muttered something about getting a refill and fled toward the barista like a man abandoning ship.
Marina turned a page and wrote:
Mansplainer Dick cleared by means of dialectical disarmament. No casualties.
She added, almost tenderly, He meant no harm. But ignorance spoken with confidence is a kind of cannon fire.
Evening Watch
By sunset, the ship had left the continental shelf. The ocean deepened in color, a blue so dark it bordered on theology. She dined alone, savoring roasted sea bass and the quiet hum of the engines.
Around her, conversations rose and fell like tides. She listened with half an ear, cataloging new species of Dicks the way Darwin once cataloged finches. The Victim. The Gossip. The Savior. She could already sense them circling, drawn to light.
She closed her eyes for a moment, feeling the gentle roll beneath her chair. The ship moved with intention; it reminded her of breath, inhale, exhale, a steady rhythm against chaos.
Freedom, she realized, wasn’t escape. It was steerage. The ability to choose your heading despite the waves.
When she returned to her cabin, she found the orchid had dropped a single petal onto her journal. A small sign, she thought, that even beauty knows when to let go.
She pressed the petal between the pages beside her first entry.
Tomorrow, she’d meet the next Dick.
But tonight, she let the hum of the engines lull her, feeling, for the first time in years, both afloat and at peace.
Part II – At Sea: The First Six Dicks
Morning Watch: The Victim Dick
The next morning the Atlantic wore a new face, smooth, pewter, patient. Marina carried her journal to the upper deck where sunlight spilled through gaps in the clouds like benediction. She had barely opened to page two when a sigh announced company.
The woman in the deck chair beside her was swaddled in scarves though the air was warm. “Can you believe,” she began without preamble, “that my husband booked this cruise to ‘rekindle’ us? Then canceled the night before. Typical.”
Marina nodded politely. “You came anyway?”
“Oh, I had to,” the woman said, stirring her mimosa as though it were a cauldron of grievances. “Otherwise I’d just sit home thinking about how men ruin everything.”
Marina studied the sea’s gray shimmer. “I used to think that way,” she said. “Until I realized it wasn’t men, it was momentum. When you stop moving, everything bruises you.”
The woman blinked. “Momentum?”
“Nietzsche called it the will to power,” Marina said. “Not power over others, power to create. You could write the story yourself instead of playing the tragic heroine.”
The woman gave a short laugh. “Write? About what?”
“About this,” Marina said. “Chapter One: The Cruise Without Him.”
The woman considered, then straightened a little in her chair. “Maybe I will.”
“Good,” Marina said, closing her notebook. “Then the ending’s already better.”
Later, in her journal, she wrote:
2. Victim Dick: Converted complaint into creation. The sea stays neutral; it’s we who decide whether to sink or sail.
The Gym and the Jealous Dick
By midday, the ship’s gym throbbed with overachievers. Marina had come only to stretch, but found herself beside a woman sculpted like a Greek relief, who glanced at her reflection with the tense vigilance of prey.
“You’ve got great posture,” the woman said, a compliment delivered like a challenge. “Yoga?”
“Cello,” Marina said. “Different kind of alignment.”
The woman frowned. “Wish I had time for hobbies.”
“You have time for war,” Marina said gently, nodding at the mirror. “Maybe that’s the hobby.”
A long pause. Then, surprisingly, the woman laughed, brittle at first, then warmer. “Touché. Maybe I do need to ease up.”
Marina smiled. “Buddha would say envy’s just misdirected admiration. Aim it inward.”
When she left, the woman was holding a water bottle like a peace treaty with herself.
3. Jealous Dick: Pacified by compassion. Envy is a wave; let it pass under the hull.
Dinner with the Gossip Dick
That night’s dining room shimmered with glass and silver. Marina found herself seated among strangers, couples comparing excursions, retirees comparing grandchildren. To her left, a thin man with a voice like cutlery leaned close.
“See the redhead at table six?” he whispered. “She’s with the yoga instructor. I heard they, ”
Marina raised a hand, smiling. “Stop. You’ll spoil the suspense.”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“Stories are more exciting unfinished,” she said. “Once we label people, the plot dies. Let them surprise us.”
He looked wounded. “I was just making conversation.”
“Then make one with the person in front of you,” Marina said, gesturing toward herself. “Tell me what you’re running from.”
He stared, mouth half-open, then busied himself with the bread basket.
4. Gossip Dick: Neutralized by truth-telling. Kant: never treat others as means, even for entertainment.
Message from the Ghost Dick
After dinner, her phone blinked. A name she hadn’t seen in months, Elliot.
Hey stranger. Just thinking about you. Hope you’re well.
Marina stared at the message. The sea outside was black glass; the ship’s wake a white scar. She remembered how many times she’d read variations of that sentence, like a ghost trying to convince the living it still mattered.
She whispered to the reflection in her porthole, “Heidegger was right. The past is only authentic when it’s buried.”
She opened her photo gallery, old selfies, sunsets, text threads like fossils, and deleted everything. Then she placed the phone face-down on the desk, not ceremonially but decisively. She didn’t throw it overboard; she simply stopped letting it steer.
5. Ghost Dick: Laid to rest. No haunting without invitation.
The Savior Dick
The next afternoon found her on the promenade deck, wind snapping her shawl. A man approached wearing a badge that read Life Coach , Free Consultations.
“Beautiful day,” he said, voice rich with affirmation. “Mind if I offer you a tip? You seem like someone carrying invisible weight.”
Marina smiled. “Do I?”
“It’s okay. Everyone’s healing from something. Forgive yourself; the rest will follow.”
She considered him: tan, serene, convinced of his mission. “Simone Weil wrote that compassion without restraint becomes colonization,” she said. “Are you sure you’re not just trespassing politely?”
He blinked. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I believe you,” she said kindly, “but help isn’t always wanted. Sometimes the kindest act is to step back.”
She thanked him for the conversation and walked away, leaving him gazing at the sea like a missionary abandoned by his flock.
6. Savior Dick: Disarmed by boundaries. Every rescue begins with presumption.
Evening Reflection
Night settled heavy and velvet. The horizon drew a thin silver line between two immensities. Marina sat on the bow, journal open, pages fluttering like sails.
Six entries filled, six blank. Each encounter had stripped something unnecessary, an impulse to apologize, to compete, to prove. She felt lighter, as though ballast had been tossed quietly overboard.
Below, the engines murmured their endless mantra: forward, forward.
She touched the orchid petal pressed into page one; it had dried perfectly, a small amber flame. “Halfway,” she murmured. “Half-cleared, half-formed.”
In the darkness, the ship’s wake glowed faintly with plankton, tiny sparks in the black water. She watched them trail away until they became stars again.
Part III – Crossing the Mid-Atlantic: The Final Six Dicks
Morning Stretch: The Compliment Dick
The Atlantic stretched gray and infinite. Marina found herself on the upper deck doing slow stretches, the wind tugging gently at her shawl. A man leaned on the railing nearby, white linen shirt catching the sunlight like a sail.
“You’d be perfect if you just smiled more,” he said, casual, confident, uninvited.
Marina tilted her head, letting the waves roll the phrase over her. She smiled faintly, slowly, deliberately, and raised an eyebrow.
“Perfect?” she repeated. “I’d hate to disappoint.”
He blinked, the flattery faltering like a rudderless boat. “I… didn’t mean to, ”
“You’re free to mean whatever you want,” Marina said, “but the smile is mine, not yours.”
He laughed nervously and drifted away toward the sun deck. Marina returned to her stretches, thinking: Camus called it rebellion, the refusal to bend to absurd expectations. Every unsolicited ‘perfect’ is an invitation to define yourself instead.
7. Compliment Dick: Neutralized by self-possession. One smile for me, thank you.
Noon Confessional: The Emotional Leech Dick
In the library, she found a fellow traveler hunched over a notebook. “You’re the only person I can talk to,” he said, voice low, urgent. “I don’t know what I’d do without someone like you.”
Marina perched across from him, calm as a lighthouse. “I can listen,” she said, “but only for the duration of this table. Then I’ll point you toward someone trained to carry the heavy cargo you’ve brought.”
He fumbled, embarrassed. “But I thought, ”
“You thought wrong. Compassion without boundaries is tyranny disguised as kindness. Tao would approve of space. Space is life.”
She handed him the contact of a counselor on the ship and moved to the next shelf of books. The hum of the engines outside echoed in her chest, steady, reassuring.
8. Emotional Leech Dick: Managed by boundaries. Compassion preserved, drain denied.
Trivia Night: The Competitive Dick
Evening brought a challenge: trivia night in the lounge. Marina sat alone, watching the crowd swell with the usual bravado. A woman across the room smirked, claiming, “I win every cruise contest.”
The questions started: world capitals, obscure poets, maritime history. Marina answered quietly but with precision. By the third round, the smirks faded. She won, collected the prize, and handed it to a small boy seated nearby, beaming like he’d discovered treasure.
Victory had been hers, but the act of giving it away transformed the energy in the room. Spite and pride dissolved like salt in seawater.
9. Competitive Dick: Vanquished by generosity. Triumph defined by joy, not possession.
Deckside Nostalgia: The Nostalgia Dick
Later, the ship’s speakers played a tune from her past, old, familiar, ghostly. Memories pressed against her ribs like water through a sieve.
She closed her eyes and let the music fold around her. Then she sang a new verse under her breath, one that belonged to the present moment. Old ache softened. The sea’s vastness seemed to absorb it.
10. Nostalgia Dick: Redeemed through re-creation. Memory re-written, grief contained.
Piano Lounge: The Cock Block Dick
That night, the piano lounge buzzed with low conversation. She noticed him, the musician with quiet eyes and an easy smile. Her pulse quickened, not from hope, but from the pleasure of meeting someone fully present.
Then, a woman with poise and imperiousness approached, her tone clipped. “Oh, he’s trouble,” she said, with a hint of warning, “ask me how I know.”
Marina tilted her head, studying the lines of the woman’s face. “Or,” she said lightly, “maybe he’s just another wave. One can’t stop the tide, but one can choose to surf it.”
She moved closer to the musician, danced in small circles under the piano’s glow, and claimed her moment, not to seduce, not to dominate, but to assert agency.
11. Cock Block Dick: Reframed by autonomy. Desire is sovereign.
The Storm and the Inner Dick
The following day, the horizon darkened. Clouds gathered, roiling like restless thoughts. By afternoon, The Celestine pitched into a sudden storm, the kind that commands attention and respect.
The ship became a microcosm of her mind. Wind and rain battered the decks, waves slammed against the hull, and the engines roared like the chorus of every inner critic she had ever heard.
Who do you think you are? whispered the Inner Dick.
Alone. Vulnerable. Not enough.
Marina gripped the railing. The decks were slick; the crew shouted over the roar, securing lines, adjusting sails. She realized that the storm would not yield to fear, it required action.
She ran to the ropes, helping knot and tie, redistributing the ballast. Each movement was deliberate, a meditation in motion. Her hands, arms, and feet worked in rhythm with the waves.
Control the ship, or be controlled, she reminded herself. Epictetus echoed in her mind: It’s not the events, but our judgment of them.
She imagined each of her twelve Dicks as barnacles being scraped away by her own hands, some resisting, some yielding easily. When the storm finally began to abate, she stood on the soaked deck, drenched and triumphant.
12. Inner Dick: Subdued by mastery. Captaincy reclaimed.
The Atlantic outside had calmed, leaving her chest steady and open. She laughed aloud, a sound swallowed by the sea but resonating within. The storm had passed, but more importantly, she had passed through it.
Midnight Reflection
Later, in her cabin, the journal lay open. Twelve entries now filled the pages, each a marker of freedom gained. She traced her fingers over the words, a map of the obstacles she had dislodged.
To clear the dicks is to clear the path to oneself. The deck is clean, the helm mine. Let the horizon guide, not the shadows left behind.
Outside, the sea glimmered faintly in phosphorescent trails. Marina leaned against the porthole and whispered to the wind: “Boston to Lisbon, without the ballast of anyone else’s expectations. Not mine, not theirs.”
Her hands were raw from the ropes; her spirit, surprisingly light. She closed her eyes and let the ship rock her, a cradle and a compass all at once.
Part IV – Arrival in Lisbon: The Stillness After the Swell
Dawn Approach
The horizon glowed first with a subtle blush, a timid herald of Lisbon’s cliffs and red-tiled roofs. Marina woke before the sun, drawn to the bow by the quiet promise of arrival. The Atlantic lay calm, a mirror broken only by the gentle wake of The Celestine.
She pressed her palm to the rail, feeling the residual pulse of waves beneath her fingers. Months of tension, years, even, had settled into the ocean. The ship itself seemed to breathe relief with her.
She glanced at the horizon and thought of all twelve Dicks she had encountered, confronted, or transformed. Each had been a barnacle, each a wave, each a voice that had once threatened to dictate her heading. Now, one by one, they had been dislodged.
Her journal rested against the rail, wind fluttering the pages like sails. She opened to the last entry:
To clear the dicks is to free the ship to sail true.
It was simple, elegant, absolute.
Morning in the City
As The Celestine docked, the ship’s horn bellowed a farewell to the Atlantic, a signal that the voyage was done but the life ahead had just begun. Passengers spilled onto the quay, clutching luggage and selfies, blinking at the unfamiliar light.
Marina descended the gangway deliberately, feet on solid ground, heart on steady keel. The smells of Lisbon were immediate: salt, baked bread, citrus, old stone warmed by the rising sun. She inhaled deeply.
Around her, people moved like currents, some frantic, some languid, some seeking connections that mattered little. Marina felt none of the pull to belong. She had cleared her decks; she belonged to herself.
A small street cat brushed against her ankle. She smiled, crouched to stroke it, and thought: Even the smallest companions remind you of presence, of choice, of life.
Reflections at the Café
Later, she sat outside a café on a sunlit terrace, notebook open, espresso steaming beside it. Her pen hovered over the page as she reflected on the voyage:
The Mansplainer had taught her wit as a shield.
The Victim had reminded her that creation is stronger than complaint.
Jealousy dissolved when met with compassion.
Gossip could be disarmed with truth and presence.
Ghosts faded when she reclaimed her own timeline.
Saviors, however well-meaning, had to respect boundaries.
Compliments were hers to receive, not to surrender to others.
Emotional leeches required firm limits.
Competition could be transformed into generosity.
Nostalgia became a tool to rewrite memory.
Cock blocks, real or figurative, yielded to agency.
The Inner Dick bowed only to mastery of self.
Each reflection was a knot untied, a rope cast off into the sea. She could see the city waking fully now, and she felt that same aliveness in herself.
A Quiet Realization
Marina watched a gondola-like tourist boat glide along the Tagus River, a small vessel bobbing in a vast current. She realized that her voyage had been a map, the Dicks her coordinates, the storm a final exam in navigation.
She didn’t feel triumphant in the loud sense, no chest-thumping victory, no declaration to the world. She felt unburdened, and in that calm, she understood the full measure of captaincy: not control over others, but stewardship of oneself.
Her gaze drifted to the Atlantic in the distance. I have sailed from Boston to Lisbon, she thought, and found my deck clean, my sails full, and my rudder mine.
The city hummed quietly behind her, ancient yet alive. And she, lighter, wiser, present, walked into its streets as though she had arrived not just in Portugal, but into herself.
Final Journal Entry
She lifted her pen one last time:
The sea is vast. The Dicks are many. The deck is mine. And in the silence after the swell, I hear only my own compass, my own pulse, my own song. Forward, always forward.
She closed the notebook, leaving the orchid petal pressed between the pages, a token of persistence, grace, and what had been let go.
The Atlantic had given her the gift of its vastness; Lisbon gave her the gift of solid ground. And Marina, captain at last, walked onward, her own horizon stretching infinitely ahead.
THE END (Her Beginning)
CLEAR THE DECKS
(A Folk Opera in Twelve Movements by Marina)
1. THEME RENDERING / SUMMARY
“Clear the Dicks” is a concept album chronicling Marina’s voyage of emancipation across the Atlantic, where each “Dick” she meets represents a form of constraint — social, emotional, or existential — that she must outwit, forgive, or cast overboard.
Told as a nautical allegory of womanhood and self-sovereignty, it blends folk-prog instrumentation and theatrical narrative voice with darkly comic lyricism. Each song captures a vignette: an encounter, a reckoning, a wry lesson learned on the high seas.
The tone is wry yet wistful, romantic yet unsparing — the sound of salt air and ink-stained journals. Musically, it draws from baroque folk, sea shanty rhythms, and chamber-pop, balancing humor and heartbreak, agency and absurdity.
Marina’s ship, The Celestine, becomes both a vessel and a psyche — each deck cleared is a part of herself reclaimed.
(Tone indicators: wry, cinematic, literary, defiant, romantic. Genre blend: folk-rock, maritime chamber pop, theatrical storytelling.)
2. NARRATIVE ARC ADAPTATION FOR LYRICS
Prelude → Voyage → Tempest → Arrival
Prelude — Marina embarks from Boston Harbor, intent on “creative recovery.” She is both sailor and philosopher, haunted by the ghosts of patriarchy and self-doubt.
Voyage (Tracks 1–6) — Each encounter becomes a parable: she dismantles one archetype after another (mansplainer, victim, gossip, savior…). The humor masks an awakening.
Tempest (Tracks 7–12) — The lessons turn inward. The ocean mirrors her transformation as she learns that the true mutineer is within — her Inner Dick.
Coda — Landfall in Lisbon. The sea recedes, but the self remains sovereign — scarred, sunlit, and free.
Motifs: The helm, the journal, the storm, the orchid, the compass, the phrase “Forward, always forward.”
Clear the Dicks – Full Album (1:13:09)
Tracklist:
Embarkation: Cast Off the Lines
Track Theme Summary:
The tone is wry yet wistful, romantic yet unsparing — the sound of salt air and ink-stained journals. Musically, it draws from baroque folk, sea shanty rhythms, and chamber-pop, balancing humor and heartbreak, agency and absurdity.
Marina’s ship, The Celestine, becomes both a vessel and a psyche — each deck cleared is a part of herself reclaimed.
(Tone indicators: wry, cinematic, literary, defiant, romantic. Genre blend: folk-rock, maritime chamber pop, theatrical storytelling.)
Boston Harbor as baptism. Marina boards The Celestine, leaving behind the ballast of conformity. This opening establishes the album’s motif — liberation disguised as voyage.
Lyrics
[Harbor ambiance: water lapping, distant bells, creaking wood]
[Verse 1]
The harbor hums of iron and steam,
The gulls cry, “Go, redeem!”
I trade my past for open seas,
My doubts for salt and dream.
[Verse 2]
My mother’s warnings fold like maps,
Her prayers, they cannot hold.
The Celestine awaits my step—
Her rigging silver-bold.
[Pre-Chorus]
There’s ink beneath my fingernails,
A compass in my chest,
The ballast that I’m leaving here
Was never mine to rest.
[Chorus]
So cast off the lines, let the anchor rise,
Boston fades to painted skies.
Every deck I sweep, every sail unfurled—
I’m clearing out the borrowed world.
Cast off the lines, the tide won’t wait,
I’m my own vessel, my own fate.
[Verse 3]
The sextant measures more than stars,
It charts what I’ve become:
Part laughter, part catastrophe,
Part riddle, part undone.
[Pre-Chorus]
There’s humor in this heartbreak, love,
Absurdity in flight—
To find yourself, you first must lose
What others claimed was right.
[Chorus]
So cast off the lines, let the anchor rise,
Boston fades to painted skies.
Every deck I sweep, every sail unfurled—
I’m clearing out the borrowed world.
Cast off the lines, the tide won’t wait,
I’m my own vessel, my own fate.
[Bridge]
[Accordion and banjo dialogue]
They said a girl should keep to shore,
Should mind the tested way—
But The Celestine knows different truths,
She whispers: “Don’t delay.”
Each knot I tie, each rope I learn,
Is claiming what was taken.
The ship’s no metaphor, my dear—
She’s proof that I’ve awakened.
[Chorus - Full arrangement]
Cast off the lines, let the anchor rise,
Boston fades to painted skies.
Every deck I sweep, every sail unfurled—
I’m clearing out the borrowed world.
Cast off the lines, the tide won’t wait,
I’m my own vessel, my own fate.
[Outro]
[Choral harmonies swell]
The ship is mind, the ship is bone,
The ship is all I’ve known—
And all I’ll ever need to be
Is captain of my own.
[Harbor bells fade, waves remain]
Track Theme Summary:
“Orchestral folk overture with accordion, banjo, and choral harmonies. Tempo 104 BPM. Begins softly with harbor ambiance and swells into triumphant folk-rock with a waltz undercurrent.”
The Mansplainer
Track Theme Summary:
A jaunty, ironic waltz where Marina parries condescension with philosophy. Think “The Mariner’s Revenge Song” meets “The Sporting Life.”
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
He boards my vessel uninvited
Talks of winds I’ve known for years
His sextant’s polish can’t disguise
The barnacles behind his ears
He maps my course with borrowed charts
While I’ve been swimming in these tides
My bilge pump knows more than his heart
About the ballast that I hide
[Pre-Chorus]
Oh, he footnotes my horizon
Lectures storms I’ve already sailed
But the Celestine keeps rising
While his wisdom’s growing stale
[Chorus]
He said, “My dear, the glare will blind!”
I smiled, “Then, sir, I’ll write by mind.”
His compass spun, his wisdom sunk—
Another Dick consigned to junk
Another Dick consigned to junk!
[Verse 2]
He mansplains the moon’s sweet pull
As if I haven’t bled with her
Explains the salt that stings my hull
The depths I’ve plumbed, the reefs I’ve stirred
I let him drone, I nod and grin
My ship’s already left the bay
Philosophy flows through my skin
While he just talks the break of day
[Pre-Chorus]
He annotates my navigation
Corrects the stars I’ve always known
But this deck’s my own creation
I’m clearing it, bone by bone
[Chorus]
He said, “My dear, the glare will blind!”
I smiled, “Then, sir, I’ll write by mind.”
His compass spun, his wisdom sunk—
Another Dick consigned to junk
Another Dick consigned to junk!
[Spoken Aside]
“Actually, the correct terminology is—”
[Pause]
Overboard.
[Bridge]
Ink-stained journals hold my truth
Salt air burns his borrowed proofs
Every condescending word
Becomes a wave I’ve already heard
The Celestine is mine alone
My psyche-ship, my flesh, my bone
[Chorus - Final]
He said, “My dear, the glare will blind!”
I smiled, “Then, sir, I’ll write by mind.”
His compass spun, his wisdom sunk—
Another Dick consigned to junk
Another Dick consigned to junk!
[Outro]
So here’s to clearing every deck
To steering by my own damn stars
The marginalia of respect
Is written in these sailor’s scars
I chart, I sail, I am, I am—
No lecture drowns this ocean’s hymn
Track Theme Summary:
“Upbeat 3/4 folk waltz with accordion, upright bass, and tambourine. Playful vocals, theatrical phrasing, tempo 122 BPM.”
The Victim
Track Theme Summary:
A melancholy shanty turned hymn of renewal — she transforms another’s self-pity into motion.
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
She came aboard with her story worn
Like a flag that’s flown too long
“He took,” she said, “the best of me”
I handed her a rope
[Pre-Chorus]
I said, “What do you want to carry?”
She said, “I don’t know what you mean”
I said, “Then let’s start with the deck—
It won’t sweep itself clean”
[Chorus]
She said, “He left me, ruined, sore”
I said, “Then write him from the shore
The tide won’t turn for tears alone
So build a sail, and make it known”
[Verse 2]
By evening she was different
Not happy—that takes time—
But her hands remembered working
And the salt air cleared her mind
[Pre-Chorus]
She asked me, “When does it stop hurting?”
I told her, “Maybe never, maybe soon”
But you can’t steer by what you’re missing
You steer toward the moon
[Chorus]
She said, “He left me, ruined, sore”
I said, “Then write him from the shore
The tide won’t turn for tears alone
So build a sail, and make it known”
[Bridge]
(Build a sail)
And make it known
(Build a sail)
The water holds you, not the stone
[Chorus - Variation]
She said, “He left me”
I said, “Who cares?
The wind is yours if you climb the stairs
The tide won’t turn for tears alone”
So build a sail
And sail on home
[Outro]
She’s captain now of something small
But it’s hers, at least
It’s hers
And that’s enough to start
Track Theme Summary:
“Mid-tempo 4/4 folk ballad with prominent mandolin and cello, female backup vocals, with standup bass and brushed drums. Gentle harmonic progression evoking hope after lament.”
The Jealous One
Track Theme Summary:
Set in the ship’s gym — a metaphor for competition and mirrors. Marina counters envy with grace.
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
Down in the belly where the weights are hung,
Where envy whispers with a practiced tongue,
I lift my spirit, not my flesh alone,
I work the muscle that I’ve always known.
[Chorus]
The jealous one, she come around,
She measure me from sky to ground,
But I stretch my soul, I stretch it wide,
I build the strength I keep inside.
[Verse 2]
She count the ways I don’t compare,
My thicker waist, my coarser hair,
But I been pulling on a different rope,
I been building on a different hope.
[Chorus]
The jealous one, she come around,
She measure me from sky to ground,
But I stretch my soul, I stretch it wide,
I build the strength I keep inside.
[Bridge]
Let her have her polished shine,
I’m digging deeper in this mine,
Every repetition sets me free,
Every breath reclaims what’s me.
[Verse 3]
They want us weak in pretty chains,
They want us small despite our pains,
But I been training for another fight,
I been pressing toward another light.
[Chorus]
The jealous one, she come around,
She measure me from sky to ground,
But I stretch my soul, I stretch it wide,
I build the strength I keep inside.
[Outro]
I stretch my soul, I stretch it wide,
I keep the vessel that’s my pride,
The jealous one can’t touch what’s mine,
I sail the self I’ve claimed as mine.
Track Theme Summary:
“Rhythmic folk-rock groove with pizzicato strings, bass drum, and layered female harmonies. Tempo 118 BPM. Reflective but buoyant.”
The Gossip
Track Theme Summary:
A darkly comic drinking song. Marina refuses to join the chorus of whispers, turning rumor into revelation.
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
They gather round with wine-stained teeth
To trade their rumors underneath
The rigging creaks, the lamplight sways
I turn their talk to stranger days
[Chorus]
He whispered, “See the redhead there?”
I said, “I’d rather leave her fair”
For stories rot when told too soon
I’ll toast to silence ‘neath the moon
[Verse 2]
The sailors speak of ports and beds
Of who’s been seen with whom, they said
But I pour their gossip out like wine
And fill the glass with something fine
[Chorus]
She asked, “What of the captain’s wife?”
I said, “She lives a different life”
The one I give her when they sleep
These secrets, I’m the one who’ll keep
[Bridge]
The Celestine, she knows my game
I change each face, I shift each name
What’s truth aboard a drifting thing?
The sea rewrites everything
[Verse 3]
They think they know what’s real and true
I show them skies of different blue
Each rumor’s just a chance to spin
Another world we’re sailing in
[Chorus]
He whispered, “Have you heard the tale?”
I said, “I’ll write it on the sail”
Where wind and salt will make it new
And morning sun burn through
[Outro]
So let them talk till dawn arrives
I’m busy reshaping all their lives
The Celestine becomes my page
Where I’m the author, not the sage
Track Theme Summary:
“Raucous sea-shanty rhythm with accordion, bodhrán, and fiddle. Pub chorus vocals, tempo 128 BPM.”
The Ghost
Track Theme Summary:
A spectral folk ballad — a haunting from her past love. She deletes the memory, not out of bitterness but reverence.
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
I carved your name into the salt
Let the tide decide the fault
No hymn, no curse, just steady breath
I baptized us in quiet death
His name was written in the sand
I watched the ocean take my hand
No fight, no plea, just letting go
The water knew what I should know
[Chorus]
I’m sinking ships with reverence
Each memory a sacrament
No bitterness, no angry prayer
Just holy work in open air
I’m freeing you, I’m freeing me
We’re both returning to the sea
[Verse 2]
I held your photo to the flame
And felt relief instead of shame
The smoke rose up like incense burned
A lesson finally learned
What if forgetting is the grace?
What if this emptiness is space?
I loved you true, I loved you well
Now I release you from the spell
[Chorus]
I’m sinking ships with reverence
Each memory a sacrament
No bitterness, no angry prayer
Just holy work in open air
I’m freeing you, I’m freeing me
We’re both returning to the sea
[Bridge]
I stand here on the bow alone
The wind has claimed what I have sown
No ghost can haunt what I’ve made clear
There’s peace in choosing not to fear
(Peace in choosing)
(Not to fear)
[Final Chorus]
I sank our ship with reverence
Each memory a sacrament
No grief, no wrath, just reclaimed land
I did this with a steady hand
I’m freeing you, I’m freeing me
We’re both returning to the sea
[Outro]
We’re both returning
To the sea
Track Theme Summary:
“Ambient folk ballad with reverbed acoustic guitar, harmonium drone, and soft choral hum. Tempo 72 BPM.”
The Savior
Track Theme Summary:
A parable about unsolicited help. Marina deflects spiritual colonization with humor and Stoic wisdom.
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
He came with kindness wrapped in scripture
Said I looked like someone drowning
But I’ve been swimming since October
And the harbour’s in my sighting
[Verse 2]
“You’re healing still,” he gently pled —
“Then step aside,” the captain said
Compassion’s kind, but claims a toll
When mercy tries to steer your soul
[Chorus]
I don’t need saving from the weather
I don’t need maps for where I’m going
Give me the storm and I’ll take the tiller
While you stand safe upon the shore
[Verse 3]
He spoke of wounds I never mentioned
Prescribed a salve I didn’t ask for
Like autumn needs a saviour’s pardon
Like rivers need a hand to guide them
[Verse 4]
He said the voyage looked uncertain
That lonely boats don’t reach the morning
But Marina knows the constellations
And steers by stars, not by permission
[Chorus]
I don’t need saving from the weather
I don’t need maps for where I’m going
Give me the storm and I’ll take the tiller
While you stand safe upon the shore
[Bridge]
There’s a romance in the choosing
In the wind that doesn’t ask
In the compass pointing homeward
To a place you chart yourself
[Verse 5]
So keep your gentle colonizing
Your certainty dressed up as care
Some captains sail by intuition
Some hearts prefer the open air
[Outro]
“You’re healing still,” I heard him say
I smiled and turned the other way
Track Theme Summary:
“Slow waltz with accordion, acoustic bass, and subdued organ. Tempo 96 BPM. Slightly ironic tone.”
The Compliment
Track Theme Summary:
A brisk, sardonic tune about unsolicited flattery — and the reclaiming of one’s own smile.
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
“Smile more, dear,” he said with charm
I raised my brow, and dropped the arm
“The smile is mine,” I softly swore
“A sovereign sea, and nothing more”
[Verse 2]
He thinks I’m decoration here
A painting meant to disappear
Into the walls, into his need
For something pleasant he can keep
[Chorus]
But my face is a country
I’m the only queen
You don’t get to visit
You don’t get the keys
My mouth is a border
You’ll never cross free
This smile is a sovereign sea
[Verse 3]
I’ve worn the mask, I’ve played along
Pretended sweetness all day long
But every grin I gave away
Was land I let them colonize and take
[Bridge]
So when you ask me why I’m cold
It’s ‘cause I’m taking back what’s sold
Every forced laugh, every fake cheer
I’m reclaiming all of it, right here
[Chorus]
My face is a country
I’m the only queen
You don’t get to visit
You don’t get the keys
My mouth is a border
You’ll never cross free
This smile is a sovereign sea
[Outro]
“Smile more, dear”
I’ll smile when I want
And that’s the end of it
Track Theme Summary:
“Upbeat 6/8 rhythm with concertina, fiddle, and jaunty percussion. Tempo 125 BPM.”
The Emotional Leech
Track Theme Summary:
A minor-key parable in the ship’s library — boundaries as ballast, empathy as navigation.
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
He found me in the library
Between the maps and poetry
Said the waves were getting high
Asked if I could calm the sky
I said, “That’s not how water works
You can’t borrow someone else’s worth”
But he kept reaching for my hand
Like I was some kind of promised land
[Pre-Chorus]
And I wanted to be shelter
I wanted to be shore
But kindness has its limits
When you’re drowning in someone else’s war
[Chorus]
“I cannot bear the storm,” he cried
“Then build your hull, not mine,” I replied
For kindness drowns when left unmoored
And pity’s love, improperly stored
I won’t go down with your ship tonight
I’m learning how to save my own life
[Verse 2]
He said I was cruel to watch him sink
I said, “I’m not the ocean, think—
You’re the captain of your pain
I can’t be your coast, your anchor chain”
There’s a difference between care
And setting myself on fire there
I’ve been burned enough to know
Love isn’t jumping in the undertow
[Pre-Chorus]
Yeah, I wanted to be shelter
Strong enough for two
But empathy’s not martyrdom
And I can’t rescue you
[Chorus]
“I cannot bear the storm,” he cried
“Then build your hull, not mine,” I replied
For kindness drowns when left unmoored
And pity’s love, improperly stored
I won’t go down with your ship tonight
I’m learning how to save my own life
[Bridge]
So here’s the page I dog-eared in that book—
The one about the sea and what it took:
You can love the sailor, love the man
But you can’t be the vessel, understand?
[Final Chorus]
“I cannot bear the storm,” you cried
“Then build your hull, not mine,” I replied
For kindness drowns when left unmoored
And pity’s love, improperly stored
I won’t go down with any ship tonight
I’m learning how to save my own life
Yeah, I’m learning how to save my own life
[Outro]
In the library, between the waves and words
I finally found my voice, and made it heard
Track Theme Summary:
“Slow folk dirge with cello, nylon guitar, and distant ship creaks. Tempo 68 BPM.”
The Competitive One
Track Theme Summary:
At trivia night, she wins but surrenders the prize — victory as transcendence.
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
Tuesday night at Murphy’s bar
Questions flying like thrown darts
I knew the capitals, the wars, the kings
Every answer on my tongue
While strangers stumbled, second-guessed
I watched their faces fold and flinch
Some small part of me stood tall
Another part grew tired of standing
[Chorus]
I answered right, I claimed the crown
Then handed it to one cast down
For joy’s not scored nor kept in hold
It sails best when the sails unfold
[Verse 2]
The man looked up with weathered eyes
His daughter watching from behind
A Tuesday ritual, I could tell
They come here seeking something more
Than facts arranged in clever rows
Than knowing things to prove you know
I thought about my mother’s hands
How winning never filled them up
[Chorus]
I answered right, I claimed the crown
Then handed it to one cast down
For joy’s not scored nor kept in hold
It sails best when the sails unfold
[Bridge]
Maybe I’m romantic
Maybe I’m naive
But accumulation leaves me cold
These days I’m learning
What it means to need
Is knowing when to let it go
[Verse 3]
His daughter smiled, he shook my hand
The room returned to its own noise
And I walked out into the autumn dark
No trophy weighing down my arms
No victory to post or frame
Just something lighter in my chest
A different kind of knowing now
That winning was the easy part
[Outro]
I answered right
Then gave it all away
I answered right
And walked home unafraid
Track Theme Summary:
“Rousing folk anthem with rolling snare, mandolin, and crowd vocals. Tempo 126 BPM.”
The Cock Block
Track Theme Summary:
Sensual and humorous — a lesson in self-agency and desire, sung like a cabaret shanty.
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
The older women clutch their pearls and warn—
“Marina, querida, that man’s a storm”
But I’ve been swimming since the age of four
And trouble’s just another distant shore
[Verse 2]
“He’s danger, darling,” Aunt Lucía swears
While rosary beads tangle in her prayers
I smile and order one more glass of wine
Their caution sounds like someone else’s life
[Chorus]
I’m not drowning, I’m not saved
I’m the wave and I’m the bay
Let them gasp from safer ground
I choose the undertow, the salt, the sound
Desire’s mine to ride or tame—
I lit the match, I’ll tend the flame
[Verse 3]
They think I’m reckless, think I’ve lost my mind
As if my hunger wasn’t by design
“But what about your reputation, dear?”
I left that fossil in another year
[Verse 4]
Yes, I see the warnings in his crooked grin
The way he leans like original sin
But I’m no damsel waiting for a sign—
I wrote this script, and every choice is mine
[Chorus]
I’m not drowning, I’m not saved
I’m the captain, I’m the bay
Let them whisper, clutch their beads
I’m the want and I’m the need
Desire’s mine to stoke or shame—
I struck the match, I’ll ride the flame
[Bridge]
They raised me Catholic, cautious, tame
But lust and power share a name
So call me foolish, call me wild—
I’d rather burn than stay exiled
[Final Chorus]
I’m not drowning, I’m not tamed
I’m the ocean, I’m the wave
Let them warn from virgin shores
I choose the depths, I’ll choose what’s more
This hunger isn’t sin or shame—
I am the sovereign of my flame
[Outro]
“He’s trouble, dear,” she hissed with grace
I met his eyes, reclaimed my space
Track Theme Summary:
“Swinging folk cabaret with upright bass, piano, and sultry accordion. Tempo 110 BPM.”
The Inner Dick (The Storm)
Track Theme Summary:
The storm as mirror — every wave a whisper of her own doubt. She masters the tempest by mastering herself.
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
The sea rose high, the voices screamed
“You’ll founder, fool!”—or so it seemed
I tied each knot, I steered, I stayed
The storm was me, now I’ve unmade
[Verse 2]
My father said I had soft hands
Too gentle for the rope and strands
But I can splice what breaks apart
And mend a sail, if not a heart
[Chorus]
The water’s cold, the wind won’t quit
I’ve swallowed half the brine of it
But every doubt that pulled me down
I’m turning back, I will not drown
[Verse 3]
There was a boy who watched me go
Said “Marina, what d’you know
Of reading waves or trusting wind?”
I said “Enough”—and I did grin
[Verse 4]
The compass spun, the sky went black
I thought of turning, going back
Then laughed out loud at my own fear
If I’m the storm, what’s left to clear?
[Chorus]
The water’s cold, the wind won’t quit
I’ve swallowed half the brine of it
But every doubt that pulled me down
I’m turning back, I will not drown
[Bridge]
They’ll write I was reckless, young, and vain
But I know weather, I know rain
And when the thunder called my name
I answered back—we’re both the same
[Verse 5]
Come morning light, the deck was slick
My shoulders sore, my fingers split
But harbor lights appeared like grace
And I could taste the salt, my face
[Outro]
The sea rose high, I rose up too
There’s nothing left I have to prove
Except to me, except to her—
The girl who thought she’d never steer
Track Theme Summary:
“Epic sea-storm ballad blending folk rock and orchestral swells. Tempo 98 BPM, crescendo to 120. Final minute fades into calm ambient ocean.”
CODA — Lisbon (The Stillness After the Swell)
Track Theme Summary:
Landfall. Marina walks into Lisbon — lighter, freer, self-owned. The sea becomes silence, and silence becomes song.
Lyrics
[Part I]
[Nylon guitar, soft and fingerpicked]
The docks at dawn, the cobblestones,
The scent of bread, of self alone.
I carry nothing but the weight
Of knowing I arrived too late
To be the girl who never left—
But just in time to be bereft
Of all the anchors I once swore
Would keep me fastened to the shore.
[Piano enters, delicate chords]
The deck is clean, the helm is mine,
Forward, ever forward line.
The ship, The Celestine, she rests—
I cleared her hold, I burned the nests
Of old devotions, rotted maps,
The vows that felt like bear traps.
[Building slightly, strings underneath]
And Lisbon doesn’t ask my name,
She doesn’t catalog my shame.
She simply opens, street by street,
A city humming, bittersweet.
Do you become the one who stayed,
Or the one who wasn’t afraid?
I think I’m neither. I think I’m both.
I think I’m finally taking oath
To something nameless, something true—
Not him. Not them. Not even you.
[Instrumental swell, then falling back to intimacy]
The gulls are loud, the water still,
The morning tastes of iron will.
I write my ending with my feet,
Each step a sentence, each turn complete.
[Vocals soft, almost spoken]
No lover waiting at the gate,
No tearful reunion with fate.
Just me, the bread, the breaking day,
The sound of what I didn’t say
Finally fading into air—
And I’m still here. And I don’t care
If that sounds small. It isn’t small.
It’s the first time I’ve felt tall.
[Final chorus, gentle but firm]
The deck is clean, the helm is mine,
Forward, ever forward line.
The sea becomes the quiet now,
And quiet teaches me to bow
To no one but the rising sun—
The voyage ends where I’ve begun.
[Nylon guitar alone, last two lines repeated softly]
The voyage ends where I’ve begun.
The voyage ends. I’ve just begun.
[Sustained D major chord, fading with ocean ambience]
[Parts II-VIII]
Track Theme Summary:
“Gentle acoustic finale with nylon guitar, piano, and subtle sea ambience. Tempo 70 BPM. Ends on sustained major chord.”
Love love love this