My father and I are out in a boat. Suddenly he gives a shout. The water has been electrified. We lie frozen in the bottom of the boat, drifting, waiting for the terrifying flashes, the ultimate, sizzling detonation.
Then my father stirs. He peers about and then sits back up. “I was mistaken,” he says. “It’s only the fog.”
We drift, through furling and unfurling grey regions. A pale boat appears, and moves silently across our bow, as if moving past a shadowy doorway. From a great winch at its stern, a mythical fish, monstrous and golden, hangs to the water. A golden wake shimmers after it.
The yellow flickering plays over our silent, staring faces.