There is a place in the center of the sea, so far from solid ground, that if a man were to travel there he would be microscopic to his closest human neighbor- who, at the moment, is eating apple sauce upside-down in the international space station, two hundred and fifty miles above his head. Treading water, knowing this, he looks up, marveling at the bright blue blanket of sky that conceals the abyss in which we float; which contains our whole lives, and every life that has ever been lived. He marvels also at his own invisibility, insignificance. This- this is not a world that belongs to us. you must know that. This world is hers and hers alone: the sea turtle, now noiselessly gliding beneath his pale, swirling legs. Before she dies, she will have known 250,000 miles of ocean. In other words, ten times around our planet. In other words, a scale of vastness that has nothing to do with us. It is called Point Nemo, after all– Point No Man. We whisper legends, giving this place far away names, around smoldering camp fires while the fire ants nibble our ankles. Meanwhile, she- she is utterly at home, doing nosedives and with her scaly wings, soaring over the deep abyss covering our planet. Soaring, in the absolute middle of nowhere.
Stunning.