I ready myself and take a deep breath, a great mouthful of air, and pull back the rubber of the snorkel. The surface is so still that I get a clear view of the bottom if I don’t move much. I twist downwards and swim a couple of metres deeper. Compared to the Throne or Little Reef, this spot is empty, but now I see something bearing away my troubles on its wings, progressing south, a grey angel speckled with white: an eagle ray. I want to follow it, slow and calm; she could shoot away at any moment and vanish like lightning. I swim through colourful shafts of light, the water cools towards the sandy bottom of the ledge; if I turned around 180 degrees, the dark blue would swallow me up. The mysterious being – maybe a male or a young female, about a metre and a half wide – changes course and heads right, eastbound. A rebel! I laugh to myself. It could reach Nicaragua in the blink of an eye: it would have to claim it was from there, apply for a passport, or it would be doomed. A harpooner would doom it for far less, I suppose, which makes me sad. I stop and watch where it’s going: the boundless ocean ahead of me. The air is starting to push me up again; I’ll have to leave this surreal world. I’m almost out of breath and the bubbles stream, and I swim, caressed by the cold water, fluttering my hips with my legs pressed together, thrusting my arms outward in an ascending dive, a spiral. I’m pulled into a moving, silent landscape, a seemingly private space in which I’m almost nothing, just a thing amongst all others.

The ocean has done right by me. I’ve travelled the path it unfurled before me on the very first day I returned to its womb. I shake water from my nose and mouth, and I breathe.

I feel the wash of heat, the sun is still rising, my legs move faster, I’d better get out, it’s nearly ten. I glance towards the coast: no one’s here yet, but it won’t be long before the tourists file out from the scuba centre, hunters of the lionfish, that insatiable predator, and the underwater cleaning volunteers. The plume of smoke is still there, it hasn’t gone, the island looks thirsty, its brown seams growing. I can’t see a single car along this whole part of the ring road; it’s one of those situations where absolutely anything could happen to me and no one would ever find out. As long as I knew, as long as I were conscious of saying goodbye an instant before my departure, that would be enough.