Defunct landmine marooned on a mars-like terrain, seashell craters, foam bubbles gasping, desolate, foreign, hostile. Fear washes forth like a liquid slinky, ever creeping, crawling over itself. No prior experiences to draw from, no knowledge of crocks, snake holes, high tides. A young tour guide flies overhead. I say, I have nothing to share, are you friend or foe? Flight path detours and there is squawk, I guess I’m free to pass. He said we’re like the ocean, take a snapshot, that is your body, a still frame of consciousness in the eye of another, but it can never be the ocean, it’s not you. Look at the whole picture, the only boundaries are the one’s the mind frames. Neapolitan steel popsycles marked USCG seem placed as if for pelican-figure-8-flying-class, or to taunt land lovers who wear shoes to keep their feet clean. I stand poised 20 feet back before the contraption, fearful I’ll be shocked or blown to pieces with the first touch of skin to iron. Attention shifts, spider screams break as waves crash and sand retreats from under foot. Deep breath, eyes closed, I am the ocean, run. Whether material or mind, something has been conquered.