A man died a few years and sixty yesterday on the coast of Ashdod. Trying to save his boat from the storm. I have gone through a paper and I saw a photo of the dead, a lump under a blanket or quilt, or quilt. I was on the rocks next to his boat with the keel up floating in the sea.
The boat has been saved. The man did not. One sees this shell and think: how much you can love. Because it does not seem to be a vessel which leads to a loss to ruin. Not much is the jackpot. But man has died of saving him. That boat was his life. A man knows when the sea waves coming for one. They came yesterday at his alma wood and took his soul meat. I knew the man who played the guy. He was unable to avoid it: if you lose the boat lost everything. Boat was small, cheap. I can buy another. But not like another. That boat was not a whim. He had history, had a voice. He was a brother, a son.
If someone had offered this man a luxury yacht yesterday, rescuing the path of your boat, would not have stopped. Now the boat is still stuck on those rocks like a dog that remains quiet at the tomb of his master.
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