Work Text:
No one actually remembers for certain which of their faded memories of childhood came first, or at least Izzy doesn't. He knows, however, that no sailor ever talks about whatever damp and cramped house they were born in—not a burn from the cookpot or a beating for touching it, not an empty belly, not the labour-screams on the other side of a door or a little sibling gone cold and quiet. Instead, like him, it's always this: "I remember the first time I saw the sea."