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{
"type": "challenge",
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"answer": "Every boat that leaves the harbor carries a small argument with the sea. Mine was a cheap rowboat, and on the third morning a gale came down the channel fast enough to turn the water white. I learned then that a ripple is not a small wave; it is a rumor of one, passed hand to hand until the whole surface agrees. Steering into it felt less like courage than arithmetic: one stroke, then another, until the count beat the fear. By dusk I reached the far shore, where a single rock rose to a sharp vertex above the tide line. I tied off and sat still, listening to the wind forget me.",
"stamp": 7,
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"ts": 1793365961,
"cid": "poa-mainnet-1",
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}