But even in your psychic tropical paradise, your guts keep churning. You’ve never been the type to get seasick. Something has changed. Maybe a new kind of fuel runoff, or a rogue whiff of pollution coming off that storm in the north-east, you don’t know. But an unshakeable air of inevitability has settled over the only home you’ve ever known. Something as inevitable as sunlight breaking through the morning fog or the moon turning through its phases. Something as certain as the outside chance of a storm, a storm that nevertheless conjures from an eddy in the breeze, the brute zephyr that pries apart ships plank by plank and consigns their sailors to a watery grave. And after the wind has died down ashore and the morbid roll-call comes in, the grieving wives and orphaned children and wailing mothers and fathers will look back to that fateful day and they will turn their tear-stained faces to the heavens and they will ask, “How could we have not seen it coming? How could we have just let them all –"