The captain who couldn’t be at the helm and the harbour at once
A ship was due into port on the tide, and the whole voyage turned on that arrival — a cargo to land, a berth to claim, papers to sign at the harbour office before it closed for the day. But the captain had to be ashore that same morning, two towns over, settling the very deal the cargo was for. One man, two places, one tide. It could not be done by wishing.
So he did what good captains have always done. He wrote out a ship’s authority and put his seal to it, naming his first mate — a hand he’d watched for years, through calm and squall — to bring her in, take the berth and sign the harbour papers in his stead. Not every power he held; just those. The mate could dock the ship. He could not sell her, nor sail off with her. The letter said exactly where his hands reached and where they stopped.
The ship came in on the tide. The berth was claimed, the papers signed, the cargo landed — all while the captain closed his deal two towns away. He was, in the only sense that mattered, at the helm the whole time. He had simply lent his hands to a man he trusted, on a page that said precisely what those hands could do.
A power of attorney is that sealed letter. You can’t be at the notary, the tax office and the bank on the days Spain needs you there — so you lend your hands to a firm you trust, on a document that names exactly what those hands may sign and nothing more. You stay the captain. We just make the tide.

