On the boat we can teach you only that which is not already instinctive. We will teach you to dive under the water but your body must learn to swim back up. It should not fail you. When you allow your body to exercise its impulses, you are making use of a tool that is far more powerful than any engine or mechanical contrivance. The effectiveness of this system is insured by the most powerful and enduring warranty of all, called natural selection.

We teach you to do that which you have not already learned when you were born. We can not teach you to kill, but we can teach you not to fear any guilt about the act afterwards.

To use a simpler example, we can teach you how to hold your breath, but not how to hold it indefinately.

Children must learn how to hold their breath, either through instruction or observation. At first it seems like a devilishly good trick. It gives them the same kind of pleasure that they find in unusually large animals, both extinct and living. Holding one's breath gives them a nascent moment of control, of size and mastery. They will practice holding their breath in order to prolong their capacity.

Inevitably, a person who holds their breath long enough will pass out, and their breathing will return to normal. But few children reach this point. They will hold their breath until it grows uncomfortable, then give up. They sense the limits that their bodies impose on this new knowledge. The body's fierce stupidity, honed by innumerable generations of harsh lessons, will always present a barrier to the mind's ability to expand.

You may have noticed that when children fight, they seldom injure each other seriously. They tend to claw and lash out at the long bones of the their opponent's body, areas where damage is rarely life-threatening and can heal cleanly. They could just as easily grab their opponent's head and poke out both eyes with their thumbs, seeking to win each fight by quickly blinding the other combatant. It would be a remarkably effective strategy. But they almost never do this. I do not imagine that this is due to some sort of internalized ethic; children are generally among the most amoral individuals you will encounter. Rather, they stop short of permanently crippling each other because they sense an instinctual barrier, a shoal beyond which they dare not swim. It protects them, and they in turn remain within its boundaries.

On the boat we will take you beyond this reef, out into open waters. But we cannot leave the soft enclosure that holds your personal sea. There are things we cannot teach you, because they are inscribed in the organic container in which you are growing.

When you swim around the boat, you are in one of the few remaining places on earth where other creatures may attempt to kill and eat you. It is unlikely such a fate will befall you, but you will still experience a chilling cellular awareness of the possibility. You will see a creature turning beneath you and the slick ease of its mindless motion will communicate directly with the part of your body that knows predation.

We cannot teach you not to be afraid. But we can show you how fear is a food, a delicacy even, when properly prepared. You will devour the adrenal surges set off in your flesh in moments of exquisite fear. And so you will begin to consume yourself, eating into the instinctual edges that define the very limits of your ability to expand.