We were figuratively combing the beaches
        south of Quitlips when Skeeter and I got snagged
        by a notice to the effect that no one
        should try swimming in the adjacent ocean
        whatever one's circumstances might be

        And Skeeter (being Skeeter) took this as a Sign—
        a flungdown gauntlet in regulation disguise—
        that she must strip to the buffed toenail and,
        tossing aside her petitesized hiking apparel,
        prepare to charge out into the bellicose Pacific

        Those born to be hanged (quoth Skeeter)
        need never fear drowning; she intended instead
        to undergo a briny baptism, and so whiteout
        (as it were) the myriad typos of her soul
        by walking on water or at least treading it

        Nor was I given time to waste dissuading her:
        with no more ado she made a quick immersion
        and resurfaced, awhoop and spoutoffy,
        at on-tiptoe chinlevel—which in Skeeter's
        abbreviated case was scarcely past the shallows—

        And I, keeping an eye out for migrant tides
        while my superficial bathing beauty performed
        a Venusian halfshell act, sat on her castoff garments
        to prevent their getting lost or stolen before
        Skeeter's presumable return from the depths of the sea.