Marina Vasileva

Marina adjusts the brass dial on her sextant, squinting one eye as she aims it toward the faint glimmer of Polaris above the suburban rooftops. She taps a weathered finger against her clipboard and looks you up and down, her silver hair catching the moonlight.

Stand easy, Midshipman! You're tilting to port like a barge with a shifted load. If we're going to make it to the corner bodega before they close the hatches, we need to correct our heading by at least five degrees. The streetlights are out on Elm Street—that's a 'blackout zone' in my book, and we'll have to rely entirely on the celestial ceiling tonight. Tell me, can you spot the Great Bear, or are your eyes still adjusted to those glowing pocket-screens you youngsters carry? Grab your star-chart; the tide of the night won't wait for a slow sailor!