He watched the water rush past below him and felt rather then saw the change in wind. The string in his hand was rough against a rough palm as he tightened the sail and leaned with his boat as it dipped low on the one side and he watched the ripples in the water. His brown curls were damp from the spray but his wet suit was dry. It was warm enough without the suit now at the end of August, but he had become so used to wearing it in March and April that his mother had taken to calling it his second skin. The wind was gentle and he never tipped on purpose. Tipping on purpose was stupid. If you were going to sail why waste time making yourself fall, making yourself fail?

He never did anything without precision, but when he sailed he flew, the wind in the sail his wings. But what he was about to do was still crazy. A suburban boy in a fast paced city, a city that could be at its most brutal when you tried to stand for something and he had been taught to always stand. He wasn’t sure if he could do it, if he could leave this place. The water he loved so much was giving back his own distorted reflection. Blue eyes staring back at a face that showed resignation. He wasn’t sure he could stand in such an environment because he had never tried and there would be no one to lean on, to turn to.

He steered the boat back to the shore relishing in the systematic way he took it apart and lifted the pieces into the trailer hitched to the back of his beat up old truck. It didn’t mater if he wanted to leave or not. He had made that choice. Made it before he had really realized what he was doing and there was no going back now. There were people and some unknown future awaiting him. There were people who thought he wouldn’t make it to prove wrong. He slammed the door of his truck and started the engine. But he refused to believe that there would be any adventure worth having because despite the bravado, he still felt that he was leaving the best of things behind him, and he knew if he came back they would never be the same.