You are sitting on Camboinhas beach, soaking in the Rio skyline during intermittent episodes of near-awareness, most of your discretionary cognitive cycles expended bringing your ice-cold beer in for a successful landing on your lips. Flying near-blind means some of this delicious potion will drip onto your chest, almost startling you into coherency.
It is hot, but not too hot. It is windy, but not too windy.
The slow chugging of a diesel motor across the water reminds you that you’ll have fresh fish for lunch. That does not mean that you’ll move an inch. You drift back into the beach dimension, where the only sound is the crashing of the waves and the only sensation is the gentle caress of the winter sun on your skin.
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