I want to live in a world where pearls cannot be sold or traded, only given. I want us to discard our scuba gear and aquaculture. I have been training to hold my breath.

This pearl was formed forty-one meters deep. I could not reach it four years ago. I have conditioned the vessels in my lungs, kept myself in places with good air. I have strengthened the muscles between my ribs, learned to conserve my effort and to store air in my stomach, throat, mouth and sinuses. I have added fourteen seconds to my dive.

My father says I could have studied mathematics, volunteered for a charity, tended an urban garden, gotten a job. What are fourteen seconds worth?

We start on the ocean floor, we cannot see the surface. We rise fast. It’s no use but we might as well try. You run out of air. We seal our lips and I give you half of mine. The surface is still far and now we cannot see the bottom. We are rising through formless water and we have seven seconds left.

I want you to toss precious things into the sea for me to recover. Drop them deeper and deeper, drop them too deep, dare me. I don’t want to know for sure.