A woman sits on a rescue catamaran like on a throne made of fibreglass and salty air. Legs straddling the hull, feet planted in the sand as if holding the whole sea in place.

Wet hair slicked back, like someone who just came out of the water and has no time for vanity.

The right hand rests on the boat, the left holds the upper arm — not nervous, simply there. Her gaze goes straight into the camera, neutral, focused. As if asking: “Well, did you find what you were looking for?”

The sun burns from behind, turning the body into a silhouette with glossy edges. The light is so bright it hurts — and yet nothing can touch her. In the back, loungers and umbrellas blur into a warm nothing, other people’s vacation dreams.

The sand around her feet is damp, full of traces of those who came and went. But here, someone stays. On this rescue boat that rescues nothing except, perhaps, the moment itself.

The picture looks like an old film left too long in the sun — scratches at the edges, sepia-warm, honestly worn. Like all good things.

Between water and land, between what was and what comes. And for a moment, that’s enough.

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