“A trophic cascade is a change in the production of an ecosystem mediated via the food chain through the influence of predators and other predators on herbivores, and of top predators on mesopredators and their prey species.” Wikipedia

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The idea that one can express oneself freely and without constraint on all questions of sexuality is relatively new. At the beginning of the 17th century, writes philosopher Michel Foucault (1926-1984), people spoke crudely, indecently and openly about pleasures. The indecent was tolerated, and shamelessness found its place in the pronouncements of the people’s soul.

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Our ancestors were both prairie animals and cavemen. The oldest objects of worship are representations of sexual organs. Religions drew their lines from the recognition of the connection between sexual intercourse and reproduction. Perhaps people initially considered themselves divine in their odorous shaggyness. In the magical thinking of adolescents, this colonized corner of humanity survives temporarily.

“You lead me to places I wouldn’t want to reach with any other human being,” I said.

You said nothing. Your gaze alone spoke volumes. I undressed in front of you and touched you gently. You took me into your arms, your hands sliding over my back, then settling firmly on my hips. I pressed myself against you. Two mirrors—one behind me, one behind you—multiplied the scene.

“Do you like what you see, my love?” I asked.

“You can feel that, can’t you, my sweet.”

The mirror of the ocean was liquid light. Flowing brilliance. Nana dove down. Bubbles rose. The reef was a radiant limestone cathedral. Nana registered blazing reds, magical turquoise, iridescent violet. Fan corals like delicate hands. Anemones like flowing silk. Clownfish dancing in an anemone garden. Nana drifted deeper. Her hair, carried by the water, framed her face like strands of algae in a dream sequence. She lost herself in the sensations of soundless harmony and fluid weightlessness.

Slowly I surfaced. The sun shattered above me into a thousand splinters. The catamaran rocked gently in the swell. A day charter. White hull, teak deck, canvas canopy. The name Ocean Silence was painted in blue letters on the bow. You reached out your hand, pulled me aboard; you saw how overwhelmed I was—the sparkle in your eyes. Your hand brushed my arm. You slipped my bikini top off. I tugged at your shorts. Our bodies heated. I leaned against you, heard your heart beating—and for a moment everything outside fell silent: only skin, salt, and summer.

We were anchored 25 nautical miles northeast of Cairns, off Michaelmas Cay—a sandy coral island barely rising above the water, home to a colony of terns.

Two boats lay nearby: a glass-bottom catamaran and a three-masted schooner that looked like a prop from a hastily shot TV series and, improbably, bore the nameLeviathan.

A humpback whale surfaced. First the blow—a white burst of breath. Then the back rose: dark, arched, the fin set far back. Finally the fluke, a movement almost languid, yet of colossal power. The water rippled in concentric circles.

The whale passed us at close range. Likely a solitary animal. Southern Hemisphere humpbacks migrate seasonally. In winter they calve in tropical waters; in summer they return to Antarctica. Sometimes they linger for days along the outer reef edges.

The boat rolled gently off Michaelmas Cay. The island—hardly more than a molehill by oceanic standards—served as a refuge for terns and boobies. We shared grilled reef fish, seasoned with lime, chili, and sugar, and a salad of papaya and coriander we had bought at the market in Cairns.

The water shimmered mysteriously in the moonlight, and I felt the world shifting. Our eyes met. I knew what you were thinking. Was it a dare? Or simply the only appropriate response to all that South Sea magic? I stood up and undressed. In the next instant, the ocean embraced me. The water was warmer than the air. Bioluminescent organisms swirled around me. Every movement sparked a spray of light.

I floated on my back. Beside me, I felt you. Our bodies barely touched. They stored a shared experience. Would the uniqueness of what we were living bind us together? The uncanny allied itself with magic. Fear chattered its teeth alongside joy. At some point, we climbed back aboard. You fetched a towel. At first I was slightly disappointed—you seemed to attend to me only with care. Perhaps that already was erotic finesse. The bubble of disappointment burst and opened the space of arousal. While your towel-wrapped hands worked on my feet, your tongue found my dew.

“Do you want me to come for you now?” I asked.

…

You returned from the galley with two peaches and handed me one. Juice ran over my fingers, dripping onto my thighs. You took my hand and guided it to your mouth. You licked my fingers slowly, reverently. The taste of peach blended with salt and sun and our desire.