You’ve just shoved off from Gibraltar, tailwinds flirting with your hair, and you’re curving around the southern tip like some smug little sea predator with a destination: Ibiza, Spain. Down below, your significant other is clinging to whatever semblance of sanity remains, while you, glorious sentinel of the wheel, scan the chokehold of ships squeezing through the Strait of Gibraltar. And there it is—an existential smirk rising in your chest: How many centuries have humans stood here, staring at this chaos, pretending they could master it? You’ve read the history, sure....
