We look into the water, the absence of wind and swell has flattened its surface, so the low setting sun cannot bounce light into our eyes, there's a rare dullness that we can see ourselves in and to a few arm-lengths below. Our faces peak over the boat's rim like two cherubs looking into a well. Our bait, whole piper, wallow in the visible zone, swinging a lazy rhythm between two bobbing heads. Such tranquil sorrow where no tears are shed at the looming blackness of it all. Our view is narrowed, we don't see the cliffs flipped over, ascending from green to orange clay, to rocks above —a snapper torpedoes into the bait, a rod slams downwards, the line whizzes, the mirror smashed. We’re ejected from the sea and plonked back in our small boat, father and son, winding in the world we know.