The Sharp D.Kline

Nathaniel Hopfer wore his shoes like he wore a vest, without a shirt, but those were the demands of this island.  No cotton.  To be fair, the demands were to sit and sweat, and probably, slowly die of starvation, but goddamn it, they needed all of cloth to patch together sails, and they needed leather vests and leather boots in one hundred degree weather like they needed a four-hundred-thirty-eight pound Nathaniel Hopfer on an improvised raft of airplane seat cushions.  They float.  But they didn't float for long.  And Nathaniel Hopfer sat sweating and squinting into the horizon as he saw a party of six young men and women sink before the horizon dropped away. 

The ocean is seventy percent of the planet.  It is often personified as a woman probably, I don't know.  Sometimes it's ruled by a king or something Greek or Roman.  Either way, it's big, and people talk about it.  Imagine all of the things that they could say about the ocean.  That's what they're saying.  It's terrible, I guess, that some people were on it, and then they were in it, and then they were below it.  Terrible.  But that's just some people talking.  They don't really know what they're saying.  Turns out, they are robots, I guess.