Salt stings Peter’s eyes as he hauls against the oar, every muscle screaming defiance at the storm. The boat – his livelihood, his inheritance, his second home since boyhood – betrays him now, bucking like an unbroken colt. His feet slide on the flooding deck, but his grip never falters. The fisherman’s body knows its business, even when his mind riots.

Through sheets of rain, he watches the Master sleep. The sight turns his gut to stone. Jesus lies there, peaceful as a child, while death dances on every wave. Peter’s jaw clenches until teeth creak. This is the man who spoke of kingdom come? Who promised new waters to fish? The same man who now sleeps through their drowning?
Another wave hammers them. Wood groans. Peter’s shoulder nearly pops from its socket, but he holds. Always holding. Like he held through his first storm with father teaching him the ropes. Like he holds the reputation of honest fisherman in the marketplace. Like he holds now to a promise he’s no longer sure he believes.
“Some Messiah,” he growls, the words lost in wind’s howl. But his hands stay true to their work. His feet find purchase where they can. Even as doubt rises like bile in his throat, his body remembers its training: Stay in the damn boat.
The storm roars challenge. Peter’s muscles bunch like knotted rope as he rises, every movement measured despite his rage. Three steps to the stern. Three steps to either salvation or final disappointment. Wave-spray blinds him, but his fisherman’s legs know how to walk on chaos.

He drops to one knee beside the sleeping figure, one hand still gripping the gunwale – never fully letting go. “Master!” The word tears from his chest, equal parts prayer and accusation. “Don’t you care if we drown?”
The question hangs between them, heavier than the storm. Peter’s body coils tight, ready for… what? A miracle? A rebuke? His chest heaves with emotions he can’t name, but his grip stays sure. Even now – even here – something deeper than sense keeps him anchored to this boat, to this man.