My curach is so small and the waves, so full of voices, are so big. The skin at my feet billows between the undulating ribs, in and out, like the breathing of some tired animal. Shadows of water pass over me as I fall in the troughs, and looking up the dark green slope, I am too paralyzed to paddle. Doubts. Fatigue. I am but a single voice lost in the midst of the tempest, all yammering for attention, all crying for land.