It’s a funny thing, he says, settling those broad shoulders, steely arms patchworked in age-mottled skin, a veteran swimmer’s-frame cranked like high-tension fencing wire from a relentless crawl through the blue. This beautiful world. A mile a day, 7.15am plunge, drying off with a towel by 9. Yes, it’s bewildering, while making the clearest of sense. Though it’s not a suffering inflicted in the trance of mowing down that black line.