We sent out the S.O.S. call. It was a quarter past four, in the morning. When the storm broke our second anchor line. Four months at sea. Four months of calm seas. To be pounded in the shallows off the tip of Montauk Point. They call ’em rogues. They travel fast and alone. One hundred foot faces of God’s good ocean gone wrong. What they call love is a risk, ‘Cause you will always get hit out of nowhere by some wave and end up on your own.