If I had a submarine I could go to these tiny islands and take surreptitious photographs like this one and sell them to men in soiled, tattered trenchcoats for suitcases full of cowrie shells and glittery beads. Then I could anchor off shore of some tropical atoll and lock out from a torpedo tube and swim to shore under cover of darkness, guided only by the phosphoresence of a billion tiny sea-creatures that light up in the foam of the shorebreak. I could find a tree to sleep under and awaken in the morning with my cheek pressed into the sand and my back warm from the sunshine. Off in the jungle I could hear the cries of strange, exotic birds.
Then a monkey might step from the shadows. He might hold out a brass key in the palm of his hand, then close his meaty little fingers around it and slip back into the treeline, hooting and squawking mysteriously.
Of course, I would have to follow him.
If I had a submarine.