We came from a long line of fishermen and whalers and sailors; bearded men with hearts of steel pumping salty Atlantic blood. Our history was etched into our bones like scrimshaw. We left the north and our roots behind to a place more forgiving, where warmth enveloped us like a blanket made of hot, sandy beach. But the tranquility of the Pacific did not match our insides, it could not settle into the rough lines in our bones, and soon we grew restless. The coral that made the place so beautiful also poisoned the land and we could not grow in it. The warm winds whispered, “Stay, stay, stay…” but we had glacial blood and we could not be fooled. We dreamed of swordfish and swells, of icy winds and shaking window panes, of driftwood and fires. We dreamed of sailing until the turquoise was far behind, until deep blue adrenaline filled our veins, until our bodies were shocked awake by the cold.