Ocean

Arnold climbed up onto the deck of his ship, unfazed by the pouring rain and the thick, gray clouds. It was a miry day by all accounts, and Arnold couldn't be happier about it. The rain was a lifesaver. It kept the men alive. Kept the boat afloat. Not that that was really a problem, but it was a nice thought.

Arnold had never seen an inch of dry land in his life. He had been born on his boat. Raised on it. And when his parents had passed away, the boat had come into his possession, as well as all of the responsibilities thereof. He had to keep the storerooms stocked, the men working and motivated, and most importantly, the barrels full of water. Being constantly surrounded by an endless ocean was a constant mocking from the gods of the fact that they couldn't drink any of it. The high concentration of salt in every cubic meter of water was deadly to intake.

They'd lost a lot of good men that way, desperate for a drink.

As he mounted the deck, Arnold saw his men had already seen the clouds coming long before, and had set up the collectors well in advance. Numerous pipes, pails, bottles, cans, and pots, all collecting as much of the rainfall as possible. He smiled to himself and walked around the contraptions, checking their stability and storage. Every rain pour, there were more collectors. Eventually there wouldn't be any space left to walk on board during a shower.

Arnold supposed that wasn't necessarily the worst case scenario.

It was difficult to even see where the sun was in the sky through the clouds. The rope ladder leading up to the topmast was slick and heavy, somewhat unwieldy to climb, but the ship's captain didn't mind. He wrapped his arms into the steps and pulled himself up two rungs at a time before doing the same with his feet. He felt the cold rain on his back and head, and reveled in it. Rain was the joy in his life. The encouragement to keep pushing. That he was doing the right thing.

Even the crow's nest was filling up with water. There was a small step in to the nest, and the water was getting near to flowing over that step, down onto the masts, and flowing all the way down to the deck. Arnold's feet slipped under the water, where it reached just to his ankles. He leaned against the wooden frame and looked out over the horizon. There wasn't much to see. There never was. Not only did the sky and sea mirror on a constant basis, but other ships were rare sights. The ability to fish and farm undersea plants was vital to his crew's survival. And over time, they had mastered just that.

There were only legends remaining of the world before. A world where water was only a portion of the planet, rather than the marking feature. The crew knew the legends by heart. Arnold knew them too, but he never spoke them. He didn't believe in the stories. As far as he was considered, the only purpose of the word "land" was for the sea floor.

Water was his life. It was the only life he knew. It was the only life he had ever known. And looking out, it wasn't a bad life to have.