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Frank sympathised with the Spaniards of the middle-ages. From where he stood it did look as though you would just topple off. Whoosh. One moment you’re scooting along, the wind filling your main-sail, the salt crystallizing on your weather beaten face, and the next moment you are toppling. toppling over the edge, into the abyss. Floating in the black hole of emptiness for eternity.
A beach fisherman needs his feet planted firmly in the sand.
Frank had seen documentaries on those mad buggers who climb Everest. Inch by mind-altering inch. Hands blue with cold, yet red with blood seeping through cracked skin. Then, whoosh. They did not even know the crevasse was there. Base over apex they tumble, down into darkness, into the centre of the earth. Evaporated by molten lava.
Frank feels a tug on his line. Whoosh, his senses return, return to the here, to the now.
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