Everything has rhythm. The slap of the too blue sea against the hull. The clink of the rigging, the straining groan of the lines. The rumpling of the sails, straining to catch the wind. The gruff huffing of his men being men. All keeping time with the tick tock of the alligator’s tail, flicking at the water below.

On days like this, when the sun is warm on his shoulder and the sea sparkles, Hook grasps the cold metal of his right hand and feels heavy, as though all of history were bearing down upon him and he cannot escape its great rolling weight. I could jump, he thinks, staring at the water below, a flash of green scales circling, the beast’s inner clock counting days.

Time is too much, too much, and even adventure becomes tedious in its relentless and reckless thrill. I could jump and never hit the water, he thinks. I could just jump, and maybe for once, fly.