EVEN WHILE I DEBATE WITH MYSELF the wisdom of giving in a little to forces greater than I, I rebel from the coldness of the wind, the death of the water, the threat of the sky. I argue that it is wiser to give in to the wind; yet I still struggle against it to avoid falling over the edge. There are boulders down there and I am sure that the water is cold. If I were to fall and be knocked unconscious, I could drown in that cold water. Horrible death!

I have thought a lot about drowning. So many people have drowned. How many, I wonder, have drowned since the world began? I always through that drowning must be one of the most terrifying deaths. Imagine what it is like to want to inhale but to know that there is no air, only water surrounding you! Eventually, there is no choice; the lungs demand oxygen and it is no use reasoning that there is no oxygen — or no usable oxygen — out there; just water. Imagine inhaling lungsful of water and want to cough; but with each cough, you only inhale more water.

I used to dream about thrashing about in the water, begging God to give me something besides water to breathe. Remember Houdini’s movie death. And cold water: Remember the story about someone — that may have been Houdini, too — searching for an opening in the ice overhead so he could get out of the freezing water. If it was Houdini, what a fool he was to keep returning to the water! On the other hand, perhaps he didn’t have a choice. He may have been destined to die by drowning and, no matter what he did, he kept returning to meet that destiny. Maybe he realized what death demanded and he gave in without a struggle. Is that what I should do?

Houdini made it out of the water most of the time; in my dreams, I never made it out. I always died. But what joy it was to wake up and realize that I wasn’t dead! I used to relish that feeling just after my death dream when I woke up and realized that I was alive. What a feeling of freedom! I could almost fly, free at last from the awful burden of death! But then I would realize that I had escaped only temporarily, for death must win in the end.

Ing’s fingers clutch the column tightly to prevent the wind from tearing him loose and tossing him over the edge. He looks over his shoulder at the ocean far below him, at the bottom of the cliff, and he grips onto the boulder at the edge, teeth tight-clenched with exertion. The wind swoops back in, picking at him, pecking at his fingers which are already bloody from his tight grip on the rough boulder. His hair whips around into his eyes, lashing his eyelids, stinging them.

The wind almost moves this boulder. I can feel it shift its weight, digging in for more support, and I am digging into the boulder’s flesh for the support it can give me. I won’t give in to that wind; if it wants me, it will have to take the boulder with me. I really don’t want to do this to the boulder, but my life comes first. The boulder writhes under me, trying to dislodge me while avoiding being dislodged itself by the wind. The boulder is as self-protective as I; we should be allies against the wind. The rough surface of the rock scrapes my hand, tearing the flesh, allowing the blood to escape from my body. The pain is tremendous but I refuse to let the wind take me over the edge.

I can envision what would happen if I did get blown over the edge. I can see my body being dashed on the rocks below, leaving me too weak to get up. I see myself struggling to rise and falling into the water. I feel the pain that makes it impossible to swim, and the salt water torments the wounds on my hands. I sink and forget to hold my breath; I go right to the bottom to be battered on the submerged rocks. Becoming dizzy from all the battering, I feel myself losing consciousness and I inhale and begin thrashing about wildly in a semi-conscious state; soon it will be all over.

— It’s all right, James says. Ing, you’re all right.

Ing opens his eyes to see the dark sky overhead. James is not there. The sun is gone but still there is enough light for Ing to see the blood on the boulder in front of him. Relinquishing his grip, he sees the torn skin and blood dripping from his hands, and the red stain on the rock face. He suddenly feels pain, stinging pain, intense pain. Crossing his arms, he folds the sore palms under his armpits and clenches them tightly. He turns to rest his back against the boulder.

I’m all right. I’m all right, but where am I? What is this blood? Did I fall? Was there a murder? (Was there something about drowning?) I can’t help but stare at the blood on the hands before me. And I can see the face of the man in the doorway with blood trickling from his throat. I thought he was drunk, and it was vomit, as I looked at him in the strange yellow light; but it was blood. Now there is blood on my hands. Is it the same blood? It is his blood on my hands?

With my hands still held in front of me, I go to the edge of the cliff. But this isn’t a cliff; it is the edge of the base of the temple. Yes, there is the darkening turquoise water on three sides.

Do I dare look down, though? Who will I find down there? Myself or someone else? Who would I have killed? And I look around at the temple: the stone columns, the tumbled boulders — old boulders — carved by the wind and water and man. There are initials on these stones. A lot of people have been here over the ages. And look! there is blood on that rock. It looks fresh; it feels sticky; and look! it’s all over my hands and on my clothes. Where did it all come from? There’s no one else here. Wait! Wasn’t there someone else here, trying to push me over the edge? I remember now: He did push me. I remember clinging to the boulder to save my life; but he pried at my fingers; he wouldn’t let me go. Then what happened? I remember: He pushed me. I was ready to fall; I grappled with him; he tried to strangle me with my own scarf. Yes, and I clawed at his face — ah, that’s where all the blood came from; it came from his face where I scratched him. I can feel his flesh under my nails. Did I push him over the edge, though? I don’t want to look down, but I’d better do so.

There is nothing down there except the dark blue sea. I see no man. Did he get away, then? Let’s see; we struggled, he pushed me, and now I’m falling. No boulders; I strike the water. It is cold and everything moves so slowly. Hold your breath! Inhale before I start sinking and it is dark and cold. I can’t move; I can’t swim. All is black around me. “I’ll meet you at the bottom of the sea. The lunatic is in my head. I’ll meet you on the dark side of the moon. One small step for a man” — but I’m drowning! — “a large step for mankind. The doctors say they’ll operate soon. But there’s no telling what they’ll find when they open up the wound.”

I’m wounded! I need help. Just a little drink of water. Please, just a drink. Oh, God, I’m swallowing water! I can’t breathe! I’m drowning!

— Shh! You’re all right, Wendy says.

Ah, yes, I’m all right. I’m all right. It was only a dream. I dream a lot about death. Why is that, Dee?

“Everyone has dreams about death but no one ever dreams that he dies,” the man said.

“I do. I did,” Ing says, trying to focus on the man’s face.

The man laughs. “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. We can’t dream about something we’ve never experienced.” He takes a sip of scotch.

Ing brings the face across the table from him into focus. He sees white hair and moustache; the eyes sparkle as the man speaks and color rushes into his face. The man handles himself as if he were young with prematurely white hair. “Mind you, we can dream about a fictional life after death,” he continues. “I’ve done that myself. We can dream about living or about being dead, but we cannot dream of the transition from life to death. One can fall off a cliff but one always awakens before hitting the ground. Or one can dream about coming upon one’s own grave. But one cannot dream of falling off a cliff, dying, being picked up, being prepared for burial, and being put into the ground. It is that transition which is the tricky bit.”

“Tricky, maybe, but not impossible,” Ing insists. “The human mind is pretty complicated and it can do some amazing things with reality, even reality that it hasn’t experienced. In my dreams, I have followed the whole course of death. Over and over again, I dream that I die, that I actually die in the dream and know what is happening.”

“But listen: Did you experience death itself, or was there a sort of leap from being alive to being dead? Did you lose consciousness for a bit and then awaken to being dead?”

“Ah,” Ing says, smiling at the man’s persistence. “Maybe you’re right. Yes, I guess I do dream of drowning, then I open my eyes and realize that I’m dead. One minute I’m swallowing water; the next, I am dead.”

“I thought so,” the old man chuckled.