Jamie and I used to live in Poole, surrounded by boats that didn't belong to us and freedom that never really did either. One night we swam out to one of the bigger yachts, laughing at how easy the lock snapped when we forced it. Inside we found rows of wine bottles and drank until the deck felt soft under our feet. Then, drunk and reckless, we started the engine and headed out into open water like we owned the thing. It felt unreal ' wind, lights fading, the town shrinking behind us. Then the weather turned. The current dragged us off line. We couldn't make the harbour. When the bow started pulling toward the rocks, we jumped. We swam for our lives. The yacht shattered beneath the surface. We ran home dripping and silent. No headlines. No questions. Just a wreck on the seabed and a secret that still tastes like salt.