When was it the sinkhole which sprung from the young mother’s mind, the terror that lay waiting just outside her child’s bedroom window? When was it the tornado, tiptoeing down from the greening sky, taunting the college student with the incomprehensibility of probability and fluid dynamics? When was it the knee-deep, fouled water flooding the restaurant server’s cottage, floating the photographs, the comic collection, the cat? When was it the whirlpool lashing at the inflatable raft, which flexed and surged in ways the daughter couldn’t counteract? When was it the heavy cloud, dropping a greydark weight of rain over the river of grass, so much space around, and no-where for the solitude seeker to go? When was it the swirl of baywater left behind from the takeoff of the seaplane, leaving the young man below as he swam to the shore? When was it the back-and-forth pulse of the sea, the lubdub, lapslap rhythms of doubt and hope heard by the migrants: “When are we? When will we be? When were we safe?”.