Days like this were the best, at least in Jonas' eyes. A little cloudy, with just enough sun poking through the clouds to warm his skin, but not enough to cause any burns. There was a slight breeze, and he breathed in the salty air, letting it fill his lungs until they felt like bursting. The sun glimmered on the surfaces of the water, and the sounds of waves crashing against the shoreline was more beautiful than the finest orchestra in Europe. Jonas had never really considered himself a poetic man, but there was something about the ocean that made him feel like he could be. Picking up several smooth rocks, he skipped one out against the waves, a skill he'd learned when he was still in school. He and the boys from his class would head down to the lake and skip rocks until the sun set. Here, the rocks didn't go too far, the might of the ocean quickly bearing down on him, but it still reminded him of home.

Jonas didn't often think of Ireland, and the small house he had left behind. His father, a skilled woodworker, had been a gruff man who thought his sons to be like the wood he worked with. He believed they could be molded by his hands, and he certainly tried. His punches were like his knives, carving away the pieces he didn't like. His words were like the sandpaper he used, smoothing away the rough edges until all that was left was the image he wanted. He did it to Jonas' two older brothers, and he watched as his fun-loving, rough-housing brothers became model citizens. When his father turned his attention onto Jonas, he knew that he would never be another perfectly-whittled son for him to place on his mantle. Unlike his brothers, Jonas fought back, often resulting in bruises and being sent to bed without meals, but he didn't care as long as he kept his identity intact.

When the opportunity for escape presented itself, Jonas didn't hesitate. His bag was packed in a matter of minutes, with his meager possessions stuffed into a burlap sack. He slipped out of the back door while his mother hung laundry out front, and he never looked back. Not when he was recruited by the Gold Dubliner, not when he killed his first man, and not when he was delirious with fever from a stab wound in his stomach. It was strange that his thoughts now turned to his childhood, when there was no reason for him to think about it. He supposed he had his father to thank for the man he had become though. Perhaps in another life, Jonas would have been content to stay in Cork County, living the life of an honest man. Maybe he'd have herded sheep or been a leather worker like his eldest brother. Maybe the idea of killing a man would have been as foreign as the idea of sailing across the ocean. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

However, if it was one thing that Jonas had learned from life on the seas was that maybes didn't matter. Maybe he should have died when that fucking seaman stuck a blade through him, maybe he should have gone down with his crew, but what mattered most was that he was still standing. The boy he had been at fourteen bore no resemblance to the man he was now, and Jonas relished in it. A cruel twist of irony, that it was indeed his father's hands that had shaped him, but he had endured the journey alone. No one could claim credit for that but him. He had people who influenced his life: his father, his late captain, his best friend who had gone down with the Dubliner, but he alone was the champion in his story.