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he knows the pitching waves better than the rhythm of his own heart, and the salt stickiness of spray better than his own skin. the huge ocean smell as they heave in a writhing net-full of fish better than his own sweat. his ears have been numb for years with the chill cutting wind and he feels scalped without his close-fitting cap.

falling feels more like falling asleep into the cushioning brine, embraced in the heavy water, as if he's being welcomed back into the arms of a lover. the sound is otherwordly yet more familiar than the sound of his own breath, and more necessary.


fur and salt in his mouth when he wakes, face pressed into the sand and shuddering as his soaked clothes hamper his struggles to rise weakly up onto his elbows. he's still.