Who knows where the fascination for the sea comes from. Pearls, shells, middens. From times gone by, when Guanabara was savannah, and the Sugar Loaf mountain was an island. The silence of the Canhanhas. I always hear the loud voice of a woman coming from the Bay. It is the breast from which the sea springs. Rainha dos Anjos. The tide recedes and the stink rises. Almost without oxygen. Each span of the bridge is a frame. Oil rigs compete with the mountains and add to the stars. Freezing submarine pipes scare away the fish. What would that sailor think who, for years, was faithful to that anchored ship which now, forgotten in the middle of nowhere, wants to roll in the sea? The bay is under siege. We are all fishermen. Many islands separated from the mountains in search of saline solitude. The face is carved into the rock. The massif with the face of Noel. The senses respond to the smells, the sounds, and the horse-tail forms of the clouds. Sailing for hours on end through the same landscape in choppy waters. The oceanic retreat and the tongues of sewage. Striated, geographic tongues. Scattered stains, ambushed nets, phantasmagorical fishing. The water close to one's ears, the eye on the water. The methane bubbles pepper the skin. Hydrogen sulfide, acoustic curtains. The writing reels with the movement of the boat. The dividing line between what remains outside and what remains inside the boat. The methane bubble peppers the skin. One opens up to the silence. Macacu is almost the brazilwood tree.