The moon controls us—every six hours and twelve minutes it pulls the ocean up or down. Out here, tables are everything. One lives according to the tide table. I have it on my phone, update it all the time, a dot showing me where I am in relation to low and high tide at any given moment. The moon is rising now, large and yellow. I sail carefully in along the strait, letting myself be steered by its pull, drawn toward land while the sun sets into the ocean behind me, as if it were the one I am abandoning.

The landscape around me is living two lives. Twice every day the coastline is drained of water; only a broad strip of sand, mud, shore crabs, and oysters remain. Abandoned dinghies await side by side, stranded on the seabed, moored to buoys that have no purpose, no longer afloat.

And then, six hours later, just water. The boats, bobbing on the surface, have come to life, and God help the one that was in the wrong place at the wrong time, that was taken by the tides.

I step onto the quay in Bordeaux, solid ground under my feet after such a long time—a feeling that never ceases to surprise me, because my body is used to the rocking, has long since adapted, only knows a world in constant movement. Now I’m standing here feeling how the movement continues—it’s as if the ground beneath me, the wharf’s concrete structure, were coming toward me. How unkindly and hard it meets my feet, meets my body, jars against my inner turbulence with its stability.

I make the boat fast using an extra spring line and put out all the fenders I have, but don’t think it’s enough. There are huge heaps of old tires on the quay, abandoned by other boats that have used them in the canal. I carry a few over to Blue, ease them down between the hull and the wharf, toss a couple extra on deck, thinking they may come in handy later.

A bistro by the wharf draws me in. No vegetarian dishes on the menu. I can’t bear the thought of fish, mussels, nothing from the ocean right now. I order boeuf bourguignon, can’t remember the last time I ate red meat, but I’m so thin, my body has hard edges. I’m hungry, I gulp down chunks of meat, carrots, mushrooms, and onions in red wine sauce—a hot meal, a rich meal.