The sky lightens and the wind gets a little stronger, and for a while I’m joined by a large bird of prey of some sort. We can’t be too far from land, I think, because it’s clear he’s not a seabird. A coastal hunter, maybe. He stands on the gunwale proudly. His white chest plumage stirs and fluffs in the wind, and catches the first pink beams of the sun.

“You’re beautiful, aren’t you?” I say, and of course he ignores me. He’s almost close enough for me to stroke his feathers, but something tells me that would be unwise. So we sit and enjoy the dawn together.

I spend a little time just staring at my hands. Long, delicate fingers, and smooth, smooth skin. These are my hands; I’ve known them all my life. And yet, they’re so different from my hands. I try to explore this dual awareness, but I understand so little of what I’m feeling. I have no specific memories that belong to this place, and yet I know this is my body, and I know how to sail a craft like this single-handed, but I don’t remember the lessons.

The bird — I think he’s a falcon — makes a little sound and I look at him, but he’s intent on the view ahead. Looking past him I can now see the merest shadow of land against the horizon.

“I guess that’s where we’re going,” I say. After all, I’ve been keeping the course all night, and we’re making good time. “You might as well enjoy the free ride.”

As I watch, the line resolves itself more firmly as dark cliffs edged here and there with pink where the sun’s light catches them. Then, closer still, I can just discern specks of white, rising and diving and wheeling before the cliffs. The falcon leans forwards and starts to unfurl his wings, as if he can almost taste the distant sea birds. Then, without any parting vocalisation, he beats his wings and lifts away from the boat and powers away ahead of us, low over the waves, towards the waiting prey.