I recall dark grey waves, their ebb and flow against the receding line of separation between sea and land, the sideways sweeping of crabs on the soggy grains of salt and sand that melted together with the saturation of the water. As we left the dock, the water grew progressively darker, moving from mute twining greys to more refined, oily middlewaves, finally to the faded black water missing even the seaweed necessary to absorb minute amounts of light from the depths of unfathomable salt-dust that was the deep, deserted water. Just when the horizon was at it’s greyest, when the foggy tides of storm gave way to the clear cold shrill of dead air, no land in sight, just the sound of waves echoing with the ruined cries of shipwrecked sailors and unheard mermaids, just when the water appeared the most dead, splashing against nothing with waves too dark to whitecap, a long slimy tail protrudes from the water, lingering within the confines of human reality for a moment in time, and then is gone.

Our eyes are opened to whales.  We wait.  So it is with all of the games we play.