The path down to the water from the house is steep and built from beach debris, half-parts of things that have washed up to this quiet place. Chris and I swim. We are delighted by the cold October water and our own courage, nothing between here and Antarctica. The waves are as salty and fresh as I’ve ever tasted and I brace myself and gasp for air between them. The aftermath is like a washing machine, foamy white goodness and moments of still before the next set.