We meet on the trail, now and again.
Both swimmers as well as walkers,
though the ocean does not call me,
has not now for years.
The coral is bleached white.
Water temperature uncomfortably hot.
He speaks of a time when he swam
out by that point.
I have swum there as well,
to the lighthouse.
He carries a short knife.
I carry breath,
restored moment to moment,
turning my head to capture it
in the surge of these northern waters.
Once he saw a white tip shark,
heading for a clutch of menpachi,
brushing him on his side,
going past.
His heart skipped a beat.
As it would.
He had never seen these sharks
move that fast.