In the dark night, the sturgeon moon hangs only in the sky above the dark ferocious sea. The light from the lighthouse wipes its pale flashes from the rock on the far shore, over the flashy waves every few seconds. And in that threatening ominous unfamiliarity, there is a small ship like a toy on the tongues of the treacherously moving immense black plain. On the deck is an old zigzag with both legs fixed behind his steering wheel, which wants to turn violently in all directions as in extreme dismay and despair. The skipper steers tensely, continuously, towards the lighthouse in the hope to safely pilot the cargo entrusted to him into a port. Surely there is a port? His worn black cap is on the somewhat older weathered head underneath. Two slightly bright, light eyes in a skinny face with a white grey stubble beard and a sober dark jacket and worn pants are the silent witnesses to the power of this lonely sea bang that dares to defy the elements.
What has gotten into this wanderer and what is his motives? How did he get into this temper? And for what? Will this hero ever feel the peace of the shore beneath his feet and, more importantly perhaps, will he then finally be able to ground? Some mortals do not seem to be given to be satisfied in bed while outside the tumult. What is his struggle, and above all what is his necessity?
Deep beneath the never still, swirling mirror surface stirs something unknown, like a mare on the moon in flying times. Instinctively, the barren sea bang feels that it is not pure water, and sharpens its conscious concentration a little bit. Suddenly, the inexhaustible rough desertion bursts with pissed roar and a swirling water mass and travels a huge doom day at risk to the swirling bow of the tiny boat. The skipper sees it happening with wide open eyes and preaches some words in the form of a prayer to the saints Antony and Walburgis in case it is the last he will ever do. With a dull blow, the levitane pours back into the water that drifts apart from pure horror and hits a huge crater in the water surface. The small boat dumps in and is completely swallowed by the water flowing back.
It takes a while, or it seems to last forever before the barge with its heroic authority pops up like a cork from the water level closing at the same time. Our engineer, he may not have a name, so insignificant seem his chances in this game of nature and primal forces has both arms and legs clamped around his steering wheel when the vessel again with loud cracked land on the savage births, which now fall silent. Suddenly there is an unprecedented calm and peace on the vast lake of salt water.
The clouds are pulling away, and carefully as scared children after a marital quarrel, the stars emerge. The full moon reflects sunlight smiling over the calmed waves and the lighthouse brings the ship together with the slightly renovated skipper safely into the small harbour. All ends well... for now.
