When you're pounding out across a choppy sound in a speedboat, the keel bouncing off the crests, you don't have time to think or analyze. You just hope you're strapped in, and you take it all in: the ocean spray shooting up around the vessel, the sunset flashing on the water, the darkening east, the cooling air, your sunburned cheeks, your tousled hair, the rocky outcrop intersticed with coves, rising up severely on your right, your lover on your left, tanned, her hair an animated tangle of branches and flames in the wind, the sunglasses on her face, the hat on your head, and you just take it all in. It doesn't matter where you're going or where you've been, or what you've got to do once you get there, because you're in control of a speedboat, and you're cutting a long white crescent of wake through a great twilit harbor, and it's just you, the speedboat, and the sea, and the wind. Maybe you're on your way to the Keys. Then again, maybe you've just come from there and are now on your way to Haiti, or Cuba. Maybe you're not even in the Caribbean, you're nowhere near it, absolutely lost in the frozen hell of Hudson Bay, or off the coast of Nova Scotia, searching for a remote island rumored to hold buried treasure, and instead of a lover, your sidekick is there, and maybe it's a dog, a giant Labrador, albino, as big as a dinosaur, it's giant pink tongue flapping like a long, disgusting flag above the speedboat, slobbering all over the boat, ruining the finish on the back half of the speedboat, and getting slobber all over your expensive treasure hunting gear in the back seat of the speedboat—but even then, it's still just you and the speedboat, and that dog, and that treasure, if you can find it, and the wind.