The wind howled ominously, as it pushed large frothing waves up the side of the small tossing ship. Passengers waited uneasily, as they huddled in their cabins, ready to fill the lifeboats if needed. Quietly aware that these could be his last moments on earth, the young journalist on board sat reflecting on his short, but full life. After finding the sailors scurrying around on deck, he had sought solitude in his cabin, to bask in the despair of these seemingly endless last moments. He sat leaned back in his chair gazing at nothing for several moments. He had received his share in life- the sorrows and fears of the world, the happiness and joys dealt out for each individual person. He had known many writers to refer to death as a bittersweet thing, and he felt he must agree with them wholeheartedly. He had always thought he would die at a young age, at his peak with great potential. Yet he had never fantasized a death for himself so tragic as this. Straightening up, he drew a piece of paper from where he kept a pile on his bunk. He slowly set it on his desk, his movements weak, and deliberate. He retrieved his pen and ink, then sat bent over his table, intent on recording his last melancholy moments. His mind began to wander over his past, as he thought of his mother, sister, and two younger brothers. They would be so heartbroken, when they heard that he had died on a sunken ship. With so many thoughts and emotions going through his head, he began to write, his hand pausing only when something was knocked over due to the rocking of the ship. As he wrote, the words began to form themselves into his last tidings to his mother.
"There are so many thoughts running through my head," he wrote, "that there is no possible way to keep up with them. My heart is throbbing with such emotion that I feel it will choke me. In this little cabin sits a man, calm in the face of certain doom. I have no regrets. I hope you shall be proud of me mother, for I leave this world bravely, in strength. Do not weep for me. I have done my best in life, and hope that you have seen me as the affectionate son that I am; kind, ever obliging, and so forth." The tears glistened in his eyes. He continued writing, "At my memorial service please put as my epitaph, 'Here lies a young man who was pleasing to all, and shall be well missed by many.' Please tell those who attend the service that it is best this way. Though I know they will be filled with remorse at my death, tell them that though they have reason to be sorrowful, I wish them to continue on in their lives as before, but to never forget their friend and comrade, David Lawson." The tears slipped down his cheeks, unchecked, and a sob escaped his throat.
Suddenly his cabin door swung open. He looked up, absently wiping his eyes.
In the doorway stood the ship's Captain, eyeing him worriedly.
"Aye, " exclaimed the Captain, "somethin' wrong matey?"
The journalist opened his mouth to answer, then stopped, for he had forgotten what exactly was causing him to weep, besides the fact that he was to be wept for.
"Well," he croaked, "they'll be crying for me."
"Cryin' for yis? Why?"
"Because... they're going to miss me... and... they love me... and...." The Captain looked at him queerly. "Miss ye? Who?"
"My family... they will be heartbroken when they hear I've died on a sunken ship." he choked on the lump in his throat.
"A sunked ship-?" The Captain's eyes grew wide with realization, and he burst into guffawing laughter.
"We ain't drownin' sonny! Fact I was comin' to check the cabins afore the gangplank was let up. We're in t' 'arbor!"

The Captain stood on the deck of the ship as the last passengers trailed down the gangplank. He glanced over his shoulder and began chuckling to himself as he watched the sniffling Lawson reach into his pocket for a handkerchief, wipe his damp eyes, hiccup, and blow his nose with a honking sound for the eighth time since he had come up from the ship's hull three minutes before.
"He jus' goes 'n gets hisself all worked up 'n' emotional for a wee bi' o' hefty weather. Jus' a wee bi' o' hefty weather," he muttered, stroking his beard, "an' he's down in t' 'ull of t' ship cryin' 'is eyes out. Jus a wee bit o' hefty weather..." His voice trailed off, as he tipped his head up towards the bright sky and began to shake with uncontrollable laughter.

Sitting in the parlor with a book on his lap back at his mother's home, David Lawson stared out the window into his family's orchard. He had in truth, been brooding over the events of late, for he had been rather disappointed that he had not at least half drowned- the day's turn of events would not look half so well in an autobiography. He had so hoped to be able to say that he valiantly fought the waves until help came, or he drifted to some island like Robinson Crusoe, bravely enduring great lonesomeness and fear. It would have made such a touching story. But alas, he had left the ship in good health, the sound of the Captain's laughter ringing in his ears. Ah, twas the bitter end of tragedy not struck!
He shook his head sadly, and resumed reading.