Mark's day

Monday morning, six am, St Kilda bay — Mark is swimming long slow kilometres outside the buoys, the shoulder turning clean in the salt, the click that has always read as permission silent today. Halfway across the second lap a jetski comes in fast from the south channel, the rider not looking, and Mark has to roll hard to his back to avoid being run over; the jetski passes inside three feet of his chest, the wash rolling Mark under, and he comes up gasping with the swim cap half off and goggles around his neck. He treads water for ten seconds, looks at the jetski disappear around the pier, swims back to shore, and sits in the sand for five minutes, hands on his knees, breathing while an older guy walking a kelpie stops, asks if he's all right, gets a yeah, and walks on. Mark drives to Apex where Rob has already set up the heavy bag with fresh wraps and the projector pulled out — Rob is doing film study for his own fight next month and has asked Mark to sit in. They watch Rob's opponent together, Mark calls the patterns out loud the way he used to call them for himself in Adelaide in 2004, and when Rob asks 'you going to be all right for September' and then 'I mean the shoulder,' Mark says the shoulder's voting, Rob says 'and you,' and Mark doesn't answer. He puts his gloves on and works the bag for ninety minutes without stopping; by the time the floor fills at nine, the cut above his brow is sealed with butterfly strips and his hands are wrapped and the shoulder is quiet.