Dreams are but fragments of reality, carried oftentimes from the depths of our unconscious into the realm of the oneiric. At times they emerge as vivid, conscious recollections—memories so sharp they press upon the mind as obsessions, demanding resolution. And so, one is compelled to re-live those moments, that they may at last be reconciled. The images of fry leaping for life and the predators underneath were long impressed in my fishing dreams.

The Indian Ocean is strewn with a multitude of small islands and countless uncharted sandbanks. These latter are but fleeting strips of land, born with the ebbing tide and swallowed again at its return. In truth, they are the summits of hidden mountains, their flanks girdled with coral reefs. To the fish they offer a living oasis, a refuge of shelter and of nourishment. These strips of sand resemble highways stretched across the midst of the ocean; yet they lead to nothing, and they endure but a moment, as fleeting as the moon’s reflection road mirrored upon the waters.

Here, among fish and reef-dwelling forms of life, entropy rules, and the line between hunter and hunted is blurred.

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