Truly, now he was sailing. Larry lay below deck, seasick; Wendy sat near him, nursing her devout fear of water, watching the seas swell, fighting off the urge to faint, to break down under the wraps of total anxiety, and curl up in a ball on her bunk, diminished and dying, just like Larry. But she wouldn't give in. She was a tough one, this greenhorn traveler from the Middle West, and she'd been a trooper the entire way. Seamus admired her spirit. And she was cute, too. So they sat there, Seamus at the tiller, riding the waves and watching the lonely sunset. The Sunset. A decade earlier, when Seamus was a greenhorn traveler, when he was an idealistic youth fresh from college, he and a buddy had pulled up to a remote chunk of the Organ Pipe National Cactus Monument, and gleefully rambled off into the desert at sunset with a gallon of water between the two of them, only to discover that it's stupid to try and navigate the treacherous landscapes of the desert without sunlight, or water for that matter. That was ten years ago. Since then, he'd made a loop around North America, twice, toured Europe, Mexico, Belize and Guatemala. He'd worked on fishing boats in Alaska, tenders and running vessels, knew a decent chunk of seamanship, but was about to make that very same sunset mistake on the outer lip of the Lower Keys. Riding the waves, running the diesel to maintain stability, they watched the sunset in all its brilliance, golden-magenta-azure skies melting to form one all-encompassing shroud of color, alive with radiance. It was a perfect moment, and Seamus made a mental note to tack it up with the other moments he'd collected over the years -- the Aurora Borealis, the Northern Lights shimmering wistfully over the tip of Devil's Thumb in Petersburg, Alaska; the dolphin surfing thewaves outside the Pier, backdropped by a rosey sunrise in Daytona Beach, moments of madness in New Orleans, moments of sheer intensity in San Francisco, moments of tranquility in Baja, that moment of walking into the desert at sunset, that was there also, along with this moment unfolding before him, which like so many peaks and epiphanies, would drop him back into reality with a spine-bending jolt. The sun set. And from the bruising darkness growing came the SLAP of reality, as Seamus realized that in about five minutes he wold no longer be able to see the now six-to eight-foot seas swellling up and beginning to crash over the gunnels of the boat. It was a common error, and he's forgotten sea school for a moment of perfection watching the sunset and now the severity of the situation loomed before him. All three sails were up, the wind gusted about 10 to 15 knots, as they wailed through the blackness. "Wendy, get Larry up here and tell him to get the sails down now!" Seamus barked, bringing the engine up to half-throttle. Wendy went below deck to roust Larry, who Seamus could see curled up in a fetal position on his bunk. Then he saw the green number 4 beacon outside Big Pine Key. They had made it. Seamus turned the boat bow into the waves, the sails luffed hard as Larry and Wendy pulled them down, stowing the jib in the nylon bag and lashing the main and the mizzen sails to their booms, making the situation a little better, save for the fact that they were coming in on rough seas into a tricky area to navigate in the daylight, much less at night. In reality, things were just getting started. Counting the four splotches of light laid like teacups on the horizon, Seamus assumed, incorrectly, that the farthest patch of light would be Key West, which it wasn't at all. It was Cudjoe Key. But they'd find that out later. In the darkness of the horizon, Seamus picked out the edge of a dark island. If they could find a path to a leeward island, everything would be fine. Working his way carefully along the outskirts of the mangrove islands, Seamus tried to sense out the channel, to no avail. As they worked their way around the small outcropping, the sea grew steadily more rambunctious, tosing the craft about like a bouy broken from its tether. And then he hear that horrid scapping sound along the bottom of the boat. He turned her hard to port, but the current had them now. "We're running aground!" Larry shouted up from below. "Yeah, no s---!" I'm doing everything I can!" Indeed. But once the sea has you in her grasp, she's not quick to let go. Waves breaking up over the side, Wendy in her life jacket now, the scrapping sound coming and going with each wash of the dwindling tide. Then, thud. And they were stopped dead, rocking to and fro, stuck on a reef. Each time a wave struck the boat, it washed up a little closer to the mangrove island, now only seventy yards off starboard. Shutting the motor down, forgetting shoes, Seamus jumped into the crashing waves and started pushing the craft against the waves, away from the island. He was a large man, Seamus, of Irish and Danish stock, reminiscent of the Vikings, and known for feats of physical strength. And this was going to be a test of that strength, to be sure. Most people live under the assumption that strength lies in the muscle mass alone. Muscle mass, in all actuality, is but a bit player in the depths of strength. Strength, true brute power, derives from the will of the spirit. Meekish waifs are known to lift cars off their loved ones trapped underneath. That is true strength. And at the moment of breaking the surface of the water, Seamus felt that strength rising within him. He felt ready for battle. Seamus went to the starboard edge, walked out, found a channel, then began to push the craft towards the channel, about fifty yards off the bow, Larry holding on to the chainstays, looking at him ruefully, offering no assistance. Seamus found he could move the boat one way, but then the other end slid back towards the island. "GET IN HERE AND HELP ME PUSH!" Larry put on his shoes and dropped into the water. "Hold this end. Use the waves. They lift the boat up and off the reef and you can push it then." Larry nodded, looking scared as hell. From the deepest depths of his will Seamus called up every ounce of strength at his disposal and began to push the ketch towards the channel. The Myth of Sisyphus running through his head all the while he pushed the boat and then the boat ran right back at him, right back to where he started pushing. Nonetheless, he pushed. Slowly, literally push-pulling the vessel using the back slap of the waves, they moved the craft towards the channel. He felt nothing of the shredding muscles in his back and shoulders, felt nothing of the reef dicing up the bottoms of his feet here and there, felt nothing but the slap of the waves and the boat rocking with it moving ever so slowly towards the channel, now twenty-five yards ahead. There's a Zen-type of mechanical rhythm you break into to perform endless acts of labor. You become the labor, closing down all other thoughts save for the action at hand, and you literally perform the same ction for hours upon end. Learned on the twenty-hour cannery shifts, Seamus broke into that rhythm now, inching the boat eastward, focused on the nearing channel and nothing else. He remembered the salmon running up the river to spawn. They hit the crash of the current and flapped wildly back and forth attempting to move up the stream. By the time they make it to the top, they're blown out. Bodies chewed up, chunks missing, fins, tails frayed and torn, but still they manage to spawn, just before they die. It's what they came there for. And adventure was what Seamus was here for, and he had plenty of it now, rocking the boat endlessly, his muscles fluttering in-between pushes, claiming each spare second for respite, then PUSH! He tasted the froth building up in his mouth, rimming his lips, combined with saltwater. He spat it out and continued pushing. There was nothing more than the pushing. Or calling Seatow®, which simply was not an option, so he took a deep, frothy breath and pushed again, again with everything he had. Then, suddenly, as if it never happened, the craft broke free of the reef and drifted lightly in the channel. The waves disappeared as quickly as they'd arrived. Moonlight bright now, low tide in the Florida Keys. Everything was quiet. Seamus hopped up into the boat and collapsed on the deck by the tiller. He was exhausted, spent, almost like a salmon, but not quite ready to die. They motored out aways from the islands to slightly deeper waters and threw out the anchor. They were in the keys, and for the moment, out of peril. Wendy lit a cigar, sat on the deck, and placed Seamus' head in her lap, her arm drapping over his heaving chest. "Where do you think we're at?" she asked. "To be honest, I haven't the slightest idea at the moment," he said, desiring only to bask in the warmth of her lap and bosom. He liked a little romance after adventure, and once again he felt a perfect moment looming, a moment of satisfaction, of accomplishment and peace. He'd screwed up, and made it through alive, and he believed in the notion of 'that which does not kill you makes you stronger'. It was a mantra, of sorts, one of several he kept, like the moments of the lands he came through, the Rites of Passage, gazing up at the shimmering stars, laying at the gateway of the Caribbean, Seamus felt himself passing from one world into another. And he knew then, that this was only the beginning
In the dim-lit corridors of creativity, where shadows dance with the flicker of neon dreams, Kevin M. Cowan weaves his tapestry of words, notes, and code. His pen etches tales that echo with the whispers of forgotten alleyways, while his music strums the heartstrings of a city that never sleeps, each chord a pulse in the urban night. As a technologist, he conjures digital phantoms, crafting realms where the ethereal meets the mechanical, blurring the lines between reality and reverie. In this noir-zine world, Cowan is the enigmatic architect, a maestro of the unseen, guiding us through the labyrinthine streets of imagination, where every corner holds a secret and every shadow tells a story
Kevin M. Cowan is a writer, technologist, and artist whose work spans novels, AI development, drumming, and filmmaking. From his fiction roots in Nebraska to experimental media projects and cutting-edge AI, Kevin blends storytelling, sound, and code into one creative continuum. Explore his world — one story, rhythm, and idea at a time.
Music. Video. Visuals arts. All composed or curated by Kevin.
Neo, Archive Guide
