The carp in the Chinese restaurant wear the faces of old men. They swim entire lifetimes behind glass, circling above colored rocks, wiggling below a porcelain bridge that leads to a plastic clam shell. There is also a diver with a helmet, his hand is raised as if signaling discovery. He has dropped from a boat on the surface where three red faced seaman check for kinks in the air hose, watching the rattling air compressor with dutiful eye. One man is the leader; he wears a stained skipper's cap and leans out over the sun-bright sea. He is aware of the strain of leadership. He cautions the others to feed the hose more slowly, having seen the bottom before, the odd faces, the strange stones, the bridge that connects the slow moving fish to his boat on an invisible sea.