We sail across some invisible divide, into a dreamscape in dream time. Time slows.

Away out there, the ocean’s floor creeps. Relentlessly shoves at the granite continent. Inconceivable force hefts coastal ranges to buckled heights. The foreshore fractures and crazes and mazes.

And the sea sweeps in, and with it, fog.

What lives here the years round has winter scribed on its very bones. Stunted trees lean into winds long blown yet soon enough come storms again. We are mere transients. Brief sojourners in summer’s easy embrace. We move among survivors of winter’s mauling wind and wave—and are humbled.

For all this surge and surf, these waters teem with life a’roar and a’roil, adapting to each moment.

We drift and row and sail among wonders, wondering. Our senses flung wide. Our selves hushed. Our hearts and breaths slow to the tempo of this place.

Are we even awake?