Glasses? Check. Sun block? Check. Immortality? Check. We are the lords of salt, foam, and bliss. We’ve got Jupiter on speed dial, and we take being one with the sea quite literally, so don’t set foot on our lady with any fear hiding between the cracks in your teeth. There’s no end to our course. Where our prow cuts, it’s infinity, it’s Lake Albanus – high and impregnable, and only we know the way. Paredrae slink around the deck on oil-slicked legs, while Bacchus and Voluptas pull never-ending bottles of Krug 1928 from the cooler. Our sea (and it is ours) reflects the heavens, so that too must be our domain. We coast through clouds, rays, and stars, and they all belong to us. The purr of the cylinders is the boastful pipe of Pan, and the waxed kiss of the deck is sweeter than any lover’s. When the waves are finished shining, and we are finished conquering them, we moor our chariot in our temple, where we make sacrifices of engine flushes and buffing rags. No one can do this like we do. No one can understand like we do. [Kathleen McCampbell]