7The heat is unpleasant; the tiny breeze flickering through the open hatch is teasingly inadequate. It rains. Each day a few more yachts thread their way into the quiet waters of the harbour. Rubber dinghies motor or row between shore and boat. Rusting hulls of large fishing boats snuggle together in twos and threes. An occasional boat minder wanders the deck to take some air. Night approaches. I stomp back and forth in my prison. I need to walk. Suddenly I remember my dream of the ocean. It arrives to wake me up, to remind me that I am not my unsteady thoughts. I may be disgruntled, but this isn’t me. I’m as still and free as the deep steady ocean beneath the churning waves. ‘Being disgruntled’ is free to stay or go; it doesn’t matter to me. I dive and surface, back and forth, waves and o
