The weather wasn’t stormy — it had threatened as much — but you had a premonition and wore socks instead of stockings. Even when it got hot and your white shirt felt like black you were determined; you hiked to that let-down of a lighthouse in candy stripes, and you looked out onto the open ocean and thought about the very first fleet and, later, all the men that hid in the gun-holes by your feet, guarding the cove from invisible strangers. A son walks by his father, German-speaking girls turn cartwheels: someone threatens to push them into the water if they’re Austrian. There’s a sticky patch on your leg from where the icy pole dripped. If you dived off here and swam in a straight line you figure you’d wash up on the coast of New Zealand, or Chile, depending.