So at sea of late.


In our small craft, shipping green water over the gunwhales, the skies low and heavy, fat drops of rain plopping into the dark waters surrounding us, wind whipping up whitecaps. Oars groaning and clanking in their locks, the sea whispering our secret names into our ears, the malevolent wind telling us lies.

Bailing only listlessly.


No words pass between us.


Still, we can feel our backs pressed against each other.




there’s the feeling that even if we spotted land, we’d only be driven onto the rocks.




In the midst of great unease you learn to take in beauty and hope like a man submerged up to his lips, his feet encased in chains. You tilt your head up and take in a little breath, carefully, so you don’t choke and drown.

Then you go back under for a while.


Try not to be too greedy for it.




In the ocean it is only the first fifteen, thirty feet of the seas that there’s any color at all. The deeper you go, the more the color leeches out.

It gets colder and the pressure grows without stopping. The warmth and color get farther and farther away, glittering off into the heavens as the world around you turns to pitchdark and bonecold and silent.

Still you fall.




I’m not under any illusions. Well, okay, I’m under plenty of illusions.


Still, hand me that bucket. I can bail for a while.


You take a rest for a minute.


Put this blanket around your shoulders.





It will be morning soon.