The Hero's Journey-Original Writing

His boat like a cork on the abundant sea. He knew he was to face severe risks on his way home. The boat began to roll from side to side. The day was being swallowed up, and the moon arising. The sea moaning with burden. The stench of salt disperses. The rain-shroud passed by, spitting teasingly at him with swarming tears. The sea swelling and the north wind sped him to his doom. His stomach churned, he felt sea sick, sensing a fever drawing near.
The clouds became thick obscuring the moon. They seethed cruelly in the moonlight, as dark as a witch’s Sabbath. The moons mercury flush was no longer to be seen, just the mourning cloaks of black. The wind bellows disturbed and in a place of agony. His boat keeled, the sail quavered, the timber planks buckled. The bottom of the boat creaked and dithered. An alarmed school of fish hurried underneath his boat. He felt isolated he could just see the infinite sea in front and some pockmarked lights in the distance too far for him to reach.
His life was flashing in front of his eyes. He envisaged his wife standing at the harbour anxiously waiting for his bottle-green boat to arrive. She was carrying a torch beaming intensely into the dusky night. Her face was chalky with anticipation, her cheeks all flushed and her eyes teal like coral in the Belize. His image was soon wrecked when the first sharp streak of lightning ripped the sky.
The lacerating rain became stronger his arm starting to throb. His bruised lips trembled as another gale of wind rushed round his body. His face was a dartboard persistently being a target these piercing pains circulated him. He was always a victim and he always was feeling vulnerable. The blood stopped pumping. A colossal wave was approaching rapidly.
The wave stood up soaring over his coy boat.
The wave was murky coming towards like a rigid and supreme barrier. It began to coil over, he looked up the wave loomed over him. His father’s words came back to him giving him an urge of determination “a true mariner never deserts a sinking ship.” It heaved itself onto his boat. The boat shredded apart, jagged pieces of timber where floating and he was left sinking. His boat had plunged into the depths of the enigmatic ocean. The salted sea pricked at his delicate eyes and his spectral face white washed. He was crawling for breath kicking his feet neurotically. He managed to clench onto a residue of his boat his naked fingers scratching the plank and splinters dashing up his finger nails. For him time felt suspended. His clothes saturated with water clinging on and sticking onto his skin. He was wrinkling like a prune. He had a vacant expression, solitude was conquering him. He had to overcome this despair as the turbulence of the storm
faded.
The mist like a wrath’s veil of sorrow started to dwindle. The waves started to make truce and weren’t so eager to wage war. The rocks left crippled and nude as the tempest had instigated the crumble of brittle rocks to its downfall. The wind hissed with composure and the rain started to spit irregularly. The thunderhead was sluggishly transforming back to the original thin binge of thick silver cumulus clouds. The bedlam of the sea was no-man’s land not so long ago. The ocean now lampooned him for being so afraid as now it looks harmless. He felt triumphant he had won a war when the odds were against him. All he wanted to do was to voyage home and sit by the scorching fire with is amorous wife. But there was no one to be seen the sea had washed him to the middle of nowhere on its rampage.