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[46] SAnriKU the game was not to look but feel the slow drag, the rise and fall, the quiet revolt of crests gaining an underworld; to know in our heels the moment of their advance: languid, insidious. “Sanriku!” one of us would call — a notice to the rest that it was imminent And with one lift, a solidarity, we’d throw ourselves beachward, tossing and rolling in a curled force. Submerged, i would hear that call like water’s moan, or like the heaving sobs of Asian fishermen, who felt too late the slip of plates, the buckling floor, the little missionary wave passing beneath their boats; who, steeped in so much grief, never knew the clarity that follows every quake — when there, for just an instant, the contours of the seafloor are mirrored in the water around our waists. ...

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