His body can never have enough. He braces himself against the pull of the incoming tide. His limbs are fluid. He lets them go with the current, drinks in the departing light, the first points of stars and a ghost moon turning gold. He swims through the broad band of light, then floats counting the stars until they form in clusters he can't decipher.
Odd words come like fish leaping.
Tireless, down the long track of gold he travels. Water under the moon's pull bulges over the beach. Now he can speak with the tide's voice. Darkness, night and the moon are his.