A one kilometer swim, because the sea remains inhospitable, sheds a winter skin, revealing scales. Pores open, muscles supple, hair unruly. The blue basking light of dusk anchors itself as my favourite time of all 24 tidal hours. It commands a meditation, a worship, a glad-to-be-alive out breath. I wonder how I'll take this home, I waste the now, worrying. A new read beckons me to book-at-bedtime under the sound of rain falling. I've caught a wet-head chill, a self diagnosed hot milk is the cure.