I almost drowned there, down where the white buoys flake from North Atlantic blows. A most uncouth end it would have been, unlike Miss Woolf who gave herself stones enough to quieten a blooming dress. Some days you could be anywhere warm. On August afternoons clouds heave, inflate, crumple flat from rain, skies defect to pallor blue, fearing sea commotion. Farther out, I feel that too early longing watching the swizzle-thin Basanta boys fed on rasta-nuts, whey and glutamate.