On the phone with my dad, every time I think I’ve gotten it across to him what is happening here at home, how serious, how affecting it has been, how everyone is moving within two worlds — one is the routine of everyday, the other where everything now feels heightened, constantly shifting, a live current — and that the constant navigation between the two wears you down over and over in waking hours, he interrupts, starts giving me the nautical coordinates of where their boat is, chugging slowly away from the Falklands where the South Atlantic cools its toes against Antarctica.