Somehow I knew things others didn't. I remember being only a grubby infant. The way I would spend the day getting sticky and muddy, and at the end I would find myself in the capsule like bathtub with the plips and plops of turbulent water halfway filling my ears. I remember another language in my baby days. A dialect made out of swishes and breaths, I remember speaking it with the kitchen faucet and the fat blobs of water on the plants like the eyes of the earth before they fell, bloated tears.
After I turned twelve, my uncle took me out fishing with the other kids. My big brother Paul, cousin Wendy and little Neil. The first time I saw the ocean I felt cheated. The water in the harbour had a thin, rude film of pollution that reminded me of the creamy froth you get when you mix together cola and vanilla ice-cream. Uncle * told me that people made it this way, that it used to be as calm and clear as ice. The boat was called Lola and it was white with candy-apple red bits and grey marks