“Can you moor the boat?” Sally asked me as she daintily hopped out of our sailboat onto the wooden dock. As she landed onto the panels of wood, she skidded, and grasped automatically at her stomach.

“You should be more careful, Sal, that’s our baby in there,” I chided playfully, with a hint of seriousness. She smiled, and radiated happiness that encumbered my soul.

I watched Sally walk inside our house before I treaded to the edge of the boat, thick rope in hand. My mind befuddled by joy, I was unusually careless as I stood on the tip, waiting to cast out the rope.

It seemed to take only a millisecond for me to tumble into the crashing waters, my mouth unbearably full of sea foam and salt, and plunge headfirst through thick muck and mist provided by the sea. My eyes shut tightly, I floundered about with no control of my body. Every instant I strived to reach oxygen, I was pushed further into murky depths. Soon I had no sense of where up was.

Sally, I love you. Just remember there are more fish in the sea.