“lotta ins, lotta outs, lotta what-have-yous floating around in old duder’s head, man.”
I read this book a million years ago called “Water Dancer” I think, by Jennifer Levin, about this girl long-distance swimmer, and her coach was called Tycho after Tycho Brahe, because, I think, he had his nose busted apart by an oar or something. Not cut off in a duel by a sword like the original guy.
Anyway. That book always stayed with me. Something about long distance swimming, the isolation and cold and difficulty of it. That and the lesbian sex. It kind of stirred me up at sixteen. But also the thing about Tycho Brahe.
About working your whole life on a thing and being all wrong about it, even though it wasn’t really your fault. About working in isolation and quietness and fighting despair and being wounded. Being wet and cold and always going back into the cold dark water. Of your own volition. Or compulsion.
About losing everything and what that does to you.
As practice for the next time.
I love the dark night. The cold sea. The distant and pitiless stars.
The sound of the sea and of my own pulse in my ears.
There can be no escape for us.