As soon as I've left the reefs behind and the thrashing straits, and when I've found my sea legs, when I've caught the wind and penned the flapping sails around it - taken the whole wet shaggy air and brought it to heel and got the waves to lie down at my dry feet - then I hear the yelping from the caves behind me, where the rocks resound again with the ocean-kennels' baying, howling me back to them again as if I'd never been away: It's memory; it's back there, playing.