He remembered on his numb legs the warmth of that summer playing with his son.
The saltpeter tangled his hair and beard as he continued to remember his life, drifting away on a wet log. He was only the cook of a modest boat that used harpoons as a way to communicate and puddles of floating blood as a message.
Apparently someone had received the messages and, with unleashed violence, the sea proceeded to get rid of the insignificant invaders by swell. His family needed the little money he would earn during his absence; that absence that would now last forever.
A great shadow was emerging swiftly at him from the depths.
He closed his eyes and felt himself part of the balance.