A Sailor's Daydream

I'm absolutely convinced that in a not-too-distant future I'll find myself aboard a modest little sailboat, something the size of our own 10-meter Elga — if not her exactly — on a night black as pitch, on confused seas tossing me every which way, under a merciless rain relentlessly whipping my contorted face, soaked through, freezing, exhausted, hungry, and scared down to the marrow of my bones, hoping with all my heart that the enormous cruise ship bearing down on me, lit up like a Christmas tree and going four times my speed, isn't actually on a collision course with me — and I'll remember, or imagine, its passengers looking out the restaurant window with a raised eyebrow at the little light bobbing wildly at the top of my mast, willful as a roly-poly toy that just won't tip over, while they calmly cut themselves another chewable bite of juicy steak, mildly worried whether their tablemates noticed they used the wrong fork and will now have to eat their dessert ice cream with the salad fork, and between two catlike little bites they'll pause — imperceptibly, but in perfect sync with me — to ask themselves, in passing, the exact same question I'll be asking myself at that very moment:
"What are you doing out here, you madman, in weather like this?"