Wind whipped at the sails. Cracking against the mast with spiteful intents, its bleached fabric thrashing in expecting prescience of the island. Beneath my feet, the small vessel wobbled, dipped, and bowed over the breaking waves, spinning my stomach around like a compass. My clammy hands tightened against the helm. Atlantis would put up a fight. It always did.
I fought against the raging ocean, hauling the tiller back and forth. My firm grip threatened by the slap of brine against my side. Every inch of me had turned stiff. I was like a statue to those hellish waters. I had prepared for this. Trails of steam drew out of my lungs, (similar to the parching breath of dragons) where nearby my heart pounded dangerously, thundering against my ribcage as if it had turned into a ferocious predator.
Atlantis would learn to fear me. And, in turn, I would not falter at its attempts of trickery and deceit. I knew better than to disregard the cautionary tales of my ancestors.