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Twelve thirty finds us spinning down like spiders on thread, upper ledges out of reach of the foaming drink. Lower ledges glisten wet in the sunlight, barnacles crackling as they are submerged and exposed by the rhythm of the swell. Excitement draws me down, dancing across the short traverse; one eye for friction patches on the slippery rock, one eye on the clawing waves, drawn in like a sailor to siren song, eager for a glimpse of the crack in close up.
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