Born-again in the sea, salt junkies we are. Great and small we have found our home in the gentle unrest of the Ocean. Instead of tattoos or flagship colors we don ankles raw almost to bone. Our intent is, simple as our uniform, to feel the Ocean’s heart thump and be tangled in its wrath.
Percussive is our song. The bass kicks hard and ride cymbal fills the room. The combination sends electrical impulses shooting the length of our spinal cord. There begins our dance. Unsynchronized and ill advised, we slide until the bass drops and we rise, dripping wet gasping for life.
The tribe hunts together as our ancestors hunted before us. We bob in the wilderness on the edge of a digital frontier. Here we find the time to look each other in the eye. Here we can listen. Star stuff, collected for life. This eon’s latest trick, we stick together. A self-aware tribe of water-bound primates.