The boy, clad in naught but his underwear, feels the frigid morning breeze on every inch of bare skin. He waits at the edge of the deck in eager anticipation. When he senses the subtle stirs of the shark six feet under, he dives in.
As the shark flails around impatiently near the bottom, the boy awaits his chance. Slowly but surely, it approaches. The boy swiftly grasps its tail; it does not resist. It knows the boy.
Although the two are nearly the same size, the shark has no difficulty zooming through the clear ocean. Its stamina seems infinite.
The same rush that the boy feels every morning arrives--the pure bliss that accompanies your one true passion. This is what he was born to do. This is what he would die doing.
Suddenly, he is assaulted by a flurry of memories. His first meeting with the shark years ago, his first ride with the shark, the first time he nearly drowned. Thoughts flow through his mind like the two in the water.
The boy awakens abruptly, the hours in the dream taking place in just a few real-life minutes. He begins to sob. Why must his imagination tease him so? Why did he have such marvelous, phantasmagorical dreams while he lived such a boring life? The boy weeps openly; his parents in the next room simply ignore him. They are used to this.
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