The ocean was calm, and mild, and almost warm. When they got out to the point where she could no longer stand, he took her in his arms and carried her like a baby into the water beyond her depth. Her body throbbed against his, he felt her breath. She looked enchanting in the silver darkness, and for a moment he almost loved her. At last their eyes met, and they kissed.
There they swayed, softly in rhythm with the waves, clung tightly, blissfully to each other in the midst of an ocean of darkness and passion. It was an almost perfect moment. There are only a few such in every lifetime, and they are to be cherished above all else. But our hero was not a hero, and he was not worthy of the moment. He made one gross movement, she did not respond, and the fragile thing was shattered.
Silently he left her and swam off into the deep water. It was soothing, the wind was warm, the stars were legion, and the night was music. Suddenly there was no mind and no reason and no thought and no care. There was only a strong, blind, nameless urge, and the soft, compelling call of the sea. He was then only a primitive thing, with instincts, and a surging desire to swim and swim and swim until at last he should melt into the vast anonymity of the sea and the sky and the stars and the universe from whence he came. It was a death wish, wild and beautiful and strange, rising up within him like a giant billow from those caverns that surpass all understanding.
It was with infinite reluctance that he tore himself out of the night and returned to the entangling confinement of individual being. He swam back to her and she greeted him in the shallow water. She seemed to forgive him. They were cold now, and shivering, and tired. The fleeting atmosphere of the sublime had died, and they swam to shore.