After the flood, we started fishing again. From our balconies and corridors we flung makeshift traps and nets, each time marvelling at our catch. It seemed as if overnight the whole of the Indian Ocean had arrived at our doors. In buckets and pails we caught pomfret and snapper; with lines of weighted bedsheets we trapped scallops and clumsy eels. A giant grouper even came up in my neighbour's shower curtain, spiny fins and all. Old classics returned in watery guises: chicken rice sourced from sous-vide seabass, curries cooked from seaweed and dehydrated mangrove roots. Sharks swam by, shedding fins in their wake, and anchovies swam into our waiting mouths. We ate until our bellies were full, then slept, then ate again at night, for sunset brought schools of firefly squid that gutted themselves on our ceiling fans, and jellyfish that pickled themselves on our doormats come dawn. We grew leaner, fitter, and more muscular from the copious amounts of white meat, while our intellectual lives blossomed, so inundated we were in fatty acids and oils. Temperatures continued to rise, curing our colds, sores, and migraines. Marriages were healed, and people rid themselves of abusive tendencies. We rationalised away our immaterial wants, and we were content to thrive on material needs. At last, we came to forget that we were ever an island, and submitted ourselves towards the greater grace of that first Eden, our sea.