Steward's Log; April 18, 2014

I am born anew on this day as we have weighed anchor and I am now, in principle, a sailor. Even as I scribe this composition, our vessel splits the seas a-twain and steams steady onward, due for port in New Brunswick some three days' hence. With our journey begun, I already find myself mesmerized by the ship's movement and effects upon the water surrounding us. Several times I have had to remind myself that stock-still standing, my mouth partly agape at a porthole, will not present myself as a worthwhile labourer, and might even suggest to my crewmates that I am a potential dullard. Yet, it is truly a sight to behold, as the malleable water, mighty beyond compare in its seeming infinity, will patiently allow us to cut passage through it, with little more than a gentle bob of our ship.
Some shuddering vibration does occur as our bow meets and destroys any turgid ice blocking its path. This obstacle of nature provides little delay, however, as the spring season has no doubt withered away its otherwise stolid integrity.
The water itself folds around us, the outermost eddies of which resemble a gentle crease, not unlike one which may disturb an aging length of parchment. Closer to our hull the water gnashes about more coarsely, producing a foam as one might find upon a savage dog's muzzle.
The sea for its part remains blissfully, mercifully placid as we gain way. With great civility, I plead silent that the waters may remain this peaceful for I fear that heavier waves may weaken my susceptible gut, much like the cresting sun has hampered the rigid ice.