Goff always thought the horizon was a strange line. It was never straight, always bowed against the weight of the world pushing itself up into heaven, and yet it held its place every day and every night and never actually let them touch.
It was the line he had to cross to get home, sailing in off a wide ocean, and yet he never touched it. Waiting on land, he watched a thousand other ships tip over the edge, canvas first, but on his own ship, it was the islands that came over the top. Never him.
Stretch his arms as wide as they went, and he could only point to the line between here and gone, while every one else he knew crossed back and forth without a hard breath. He’d seen them all go, and most come back, but it wasn’t a line he knew how to touch.
He watched the horizon more often than any slightly curved line really deserved, trying to parse out how it was possible that anyone could step over it.