Passed

Mean something more, you sand on the shore, and we'll soon declare you fit. Fit to parlay, on your own crochet, from the loom that lover's knit. A knit that resembles a baller's mitt with a ball inside to cast. To cast, at last, one's heart to the mast till the toll of a whistles blast. A blast, so aghast, yet meant to alarm of an event that's long been past.