At the place where two oceans meet a white foam forms a rough line on the surface. We encounter light and dark, warm and cold.
Outside the hotel room the sky was grey. On the TV the skies were all blue. Microphones were pointed towards a grimacing face. In the corridor, staff brought room service to guests. I washed and changed my shirt.
In the hospital machines were wheeled out. Condolences were offered. At the airport where families rushed in the engines blared.
The correspondent says critical but stable.
I would come to think of this as a sea change.
MW Bewick 