The Shortest Day

Wednesday. Nearly the shortest day of the year, and I have been thinking about time, which down here is measured in air.

An hour. That is what every party gets aboard the Nautilus: sixty minutes from the hatch closing to the surface, or to the moment the gamesmaster opens up and tells them how close they came. Before it, a quarter of an hour for the lockers and the briefing. After it, a little while to breathe and hear what they missed. An hour and a half, door to door, give or take.

One party asked whether they might have a few extra minutes. I said the ocean does not do extra minutes. They said that was not really an answer. It is the only one I have.

The first half of the year runs out this month, too. A Nautilus was promised for Brisbane in it. If she has sailed, nobody has told me; captains are always the last to hear. Barnacle has spent the week facing north, as far as a crab can face anywhere.