Bloodhounds are said to be unstoppable once they pick up a scent. The definition of instinct, unable to control, unable to differentiate between gut and mind at the moment of impression. A bloodhound only needs two skin cells to become fixated on a track, golden eyes staring through fences, shacks, palms to see into scent, silent, the way Jacob became fixated on the scent of dying salt under layers of waves.
Jacob was bloodhound-like; limber tanned legs and arms, orby eyes to match the somber earth, his somber round face. Single-minded, some would think, but there was nothing to carry him beyond Somnambulist animation; his father a rolling stone of his time and not an anchor, his mother caring for elder sister’s kid states away because his sister has never gotten her shit together, can’t cope with living (an inherited gene from the pool-line). No bodies to chain the canine to. Now that college courses were scraping by, friends from before seemed stuck in the past, only caring for the good old days of sticking two-liter bottles in toilet tanks to fill with weed, strung out in bathroom stalls, house parties, peers beginning to wink out like stars these numbing days began to wear.
Most days, hours after driving swerves, creating smoke-chains around the shoreline, he would take the blueish hatchback Honda Civic to the pier on Anastasia Island, walk out to a sunbaked bench and gaze downward. Gripped by the black mass moving mysteriously beneath him, enough to take away sensation of stuck, he continued weeks without any wonder to return to the bench under black sky littered with lights of shrimp boats, ferries coming back from tourist spells, nothing to look up for. Children are taught what lies within the infinite capacities of the ocean, but the darkness and our own preoccupations play tricks on the mind, what is seen. The waves, purple or blue or black muddled together against low-light. The want of taste growing stronger, wanting to fill his insides with shark’s teeth or sea pods.