In cool blue water, I abide. I can breathe. There is no need for haste. The sea is my body, extended from my flanks and touching everything all around, fish and mammals and boats and stones, beating hearts and barnacled keels, panics and expulsions. Half a mile away, a crab fisher sleeps in his boat. At the same distance in the opposite direction there is a turtle, and if I were hungry he would make a fine meal. There are thousands of fish too small to bother with, and countless humans flouncing in the surf. I can feel them as a patch of thrashing and incompetence all along one side, and then around my mouth there is that sense you do not possess, a tingling aspiration that colours each kinetic bundle with tints of life or its absence. No danger that I might pursue that cast-off net floating a mile behind, mistaking it for a seal. No danger I might miss the tuna out in the blue water, or the shaking, terrified man who hangs before me in an attitude of worship.