Before plunging wholly into anything – love, marriage, sparkling turquoise water – one should consider the depths, or shallows, of what lurks beneath the shimmering surface. Were that advice rocket science, Krystal’s calculations would have been impeccable. But alas, rocket science has little to do with impulsive matters of the heart and soul. Particularly, when emboldened by friends, with spiked coffee kicking in, and the Caribbean sun sparkling off a tantalizing infinity pool with a narrow parapet calling out for an inverted, split-leg handstand. Krystal executed flawlessly. A perfect T of poised muscular tension, as symmetrical as planetary orbit. Athletic, gymnastic poetry. For a moment, time and gravity stood still. Of course, like the bonafide rocket scientist she is (astrobiologist turned photographer, technically), Krystal had a plan for controlled atmospheric reentry, decent, and landing. She would splashdown into the waters behind her like a reentry capsule off the shores of Cape Canaveral. What could possibly go wrong… apart from everything?
