It's Sunday morning, and this is church. Place of worship. A spiritual cleanse. There is music, the gulls, the swish of surf, the soft trot of the dogs's feet across rocky sand. I am listening the way I used to, indoors, in the pews, to the quiet inside my own head and heart, but under the ceiling of soft clouds. In this quiet, I dive. The dogs sit on the sand and attend to my swim with patient interest, mild concern. Here, they attend to me like a god. I keep my breast stroke near the shore, well within their sight. I want them to trust this: they can always reach me if they need to. It's so cool and fresh, unruffling my muscles and bone, all this blue on blue of Sunday morning. We are completely undisturbed.
