Breath

by Tim Winton

I leant across the wall of upstanding water and the board came with me as though it was part of my body and mind. The blur of spray. The billion shards of light. I remember the solitary watching figure on the beach and the flash of Loonie’s smile as I flew by; I was intoxicated. And though I’ve lived to be an old man with my own share of happiness for all the mess I made, I still judge every joyous moment, every victory and revelation against those few seconds of living.

Meanwhile nearly everyone is terrified that this, whatever life has become, is it. And what’s worse is, it’ll be over soon. That kind of fear – like toothache – can be accommodated. Well, most of the time.