Splash!

Go by the board and make waves as tight trunks tremble in close quarters. Shower in the mist of the lemonade spritz, settling on skin like satins and silks. Like ships that pass in the night, drift and coast like buoys bathing in the boundless blue. Our Mariners Pietro and Misha have weathered their storms and their worries lay dead in the water. No one talks about what happened down in the Doldrums, for life is a game of sink and swim.

Dive under the water, things aren’t as they seem. Shapes shift through chloric squints, air rises like steam. As the evening burns and the citrus sun sheers on the blades of razored cheekbones, sprays simmer on the surface of softened lips, coursing with the vigour of battle-fuelled blood. Oceanic eyes become electric and emboldened, our sea knights armed with foam noodles, assemble for a joust at sundown. Wrinkled toes grip to the cemented grout, settled between the cracks of tangerine tiles. Cheeks become plumped like ripening peaches, hearts start to pump with the passion of preachers. Just after 5:05, their forces will collide, one can only be victorious, a nobleman: esteemed and glorious.

Like a pair of loose cannons, our boys fury above the pool. Bent knees become cradled by tightening arms; two bombs descending with atomic instability. Splash. In a second, the water divides like a testament to the parting of the red sea, spilling off the sides as the boys ascend to the surface. As their striding breath is regained and their blurred vision reclaimed, the boys gaze with gleaming harmony. Who was victorious? Nobody knows, neither care; an answer lost to the harboured shallows. The mounting twilight sends shivers along dimpling skin as hairs rise, it’s time to rest. Cloaked in golden embellished shirts, the boys retire below deck, for tomorrow is a new day to navigate. Down by the pool, anything is possible.