The sound down low, the impossible blue of the Water Cube in Beijing filling the screen. A young diver stands on the board, toes spread wide, heels edged over the brink. His ribcage billows out and in as he lifts his arms into an arrowhead. I take my daughter and hold her close, hug her to me until I don't know where my body ends and hers begins – as stream joins river, river meets sea – until we are back where we started; the aqueous cradle I know neither of us can ever really leave. Headlights send their beams across the ceiling. Back in Beijing, the boy arcs through air, spinning like a bobbin on a loom. Slices the water with hardly a splash.