Against doctor’s orders, my mother bore me through a warm tub of it. A priest baptized me in it. My mother washed me, my sister, and our chocolate Labradoodle with it. I splashed, swam, and dove under it. Squirted it. For ten bucks, I’d clean Dad’s Ford using it. Once I hiked in New Mexico carrying nowhere near enough of it. I’ve fished it, sailed on it, and sprinkled my tomato plants with it. When I married, it pelted down all over us. I’ve always drunk it. And now, drifting in this ocean, I fear I could drown in it.