When I was a teenager the wreckage of a sailboat washed up on the shore
of Agate Beach. The remains of the vessel weren't removed for several
days. I walked down with my father to peer inside the boat cabin. Maps,
coffee cups and clothing were strewn around inside.
I remember looking only briefly, wilted by the feeling that I was
violating some remnant of this man's presence by witnessing the evidence
of its failure. Later I read a story about him in the paper. It was
impossible to know what had happened. The boat had never crashed or
capsized. He had simply slipped off somehow, and the boat, like a
riderless horse, eventually came back home.
descensus Averno facilis est