like sweat than he remembers; the mouthful he takes, the same as the gargle he used as a kid; he swirls it about and spews it out like a whale, lying on his back, wishing already for a glass of water; better yet: bourbon and water on the rocks, all on a foam tray he could push ahead, all the way out. He laughs aloud and takes to sidestroking his way awhile, easy, almost like lying adrift in his father's arms, learning to float from his fears, knowing vaguely his need for water, the clean full feeling he has whenever near it or in it. With every pull of his hand he can see the buoy, left hand passing its measure of water on to the right, the right scooping it on to the feet, smooth and steady until the boredom of it all starts to get him, as it always did, those long hours in the high school pool: lap after lap, the lungs lasting longer than his patience. In front of him are terns searching the waves for breakfast, diving straight into the sea, disappearing to rise empty, now and then a fish small in their beaks; eating on the fly. No boats returning yet, no one insisting he climb aboard and tell his tale of shipwreck and survival, no one ready to believe he could swim from shore. On his back again, right, left, reaching far overhead and out, feet doing their work, leg muscles loose, no