Regret Doesn't Work With Geometry

The roar of the Great Southern Ocean increases.

ROAR!

Nietzsche is confident he is going in the right direction.

The Catcher is veering away.

It's this way, says Nietzsche. I'm certain.

I agree, says the Catcher. I just can't help veering away.

It's a matter of simple geometry, says Nietzsche.

It's a matter of having a short swimming leg, says the Catcher. I regret fighting Ageless now.

Regret nothing, says Nietzsche. That's what I say.

Ha ha, says the Catcher. That doesn't work with geometry.

You may be right, says Nietzsche.

WHAT? shouts the Catcher.

You may be right, says Nietzsche.

The Catcher stops. Nietzsche stops too.

Nietzsche walks across to the Catcher.

Four metres.

You do the geometry

I only came on this cruise for your sake, says Nietzsche. It's not like me to admit it, but I do quite admire you.

Understandable, says the Catcher. I have ambition.

You are the crab on the tightrope, over the abyss, says Nietzsche. Half way between yourself and something better.

Except for this leg, says the Catcher. But I appreciate your comment.

Sit a while, says Nietzsche. I imagine there's no hurry. The others will be sporting on the beach.

In your dreams, says the Catcher. No, there'll be a strict schedule. Walk through the dunes. See the sea. Walk back. Get back on board. Afternoon tea. Look at another barrage.

How do you know so much about it? asks Nietzsche.

Not everyone hums while the captain is talking, says the Catcher.

Get in, says Nietzsche, holding open the back pack. The Catcher gets in.

Nietzsche increases his pace through the dunes. Squeak-squeak, his shoes squeak.

Swursh-swursh. Ooh! Uh! His surf rash flares up.

At last he emerges onto a white sandy beach of the Great Southern Ocean.

There is the guided tour group, standing around Captain Bain, who is explaining something.

Emma spots Nietzsche, and runs over.

There you are! cries Emma. What happened? You look heaps funny.

Nietzsche has forgotten his carapace hat.

Now he remembers.

I beat a bird to it, says Nietzsche. How do you like it?

What kind of bird was it? asks Emma.

I don't know, says Nietzsche.

It's no use if you don't know the name, says Emma.

I don't suppose the bird knows it, says Nietzsche.

But this smart-arse answer doesn't wash with Emma.

Mrs Bottle told us you were a Professor of Philology, says Emma.

CLASSICAL Philology, says Nietzsche.