When you sit at the dock long enough of a night, staring out through the gap in the rails where the dock opens to dark water, the whole cottage and earth seem to sway when finally you walk up. Often I stop just short of falling on my face as I reach for the bathroom door, and, as I stand there, the whole cottage rocks beneath my feet without benefit of drink. And then, after stopping to view him as he sleeps, I have to step out again into the rocking darkness and the swirling stairs down, and I pick my way carefully, consolidating every step, each step restraining the urge to leap, a gangly, awkward bat in flight.
The dizzying sensation of even still water. Nights, both black and partly illuminated by a setting moon, the mouth of the dock beckons. I sway as I walk careful in the dark, and the stars seem to recede at a fearful pace as I attempt to sit, they spin and sputter and fragmented multiply, and I have to grasp at the tubing of the chair to keep from rushing out into the gap where the blackness laps.