She can just make the crab out, shadowed and distorted, trundling sideways across the rock, and she pursues it, kicking her feet to stay pressed down against the bottom, and then she lays her
hands on the cold crisp shell, somersaults in the water, and surges upward into her own plume of hair, up along a passage of black rock, pitted and winding, gaping windows alterately fountaining water or sucking it back, the weeds
moving rhythmically in and out with this labored breathing, some trick of the light making the pool's surface into a shifting mirror, and though she should look up and see her grandpa bent over the pool, she can not.
After a while he took a can of black enamel (he usually starts with the color which is at
hand at the time) and a stubby brush which he dipped into the paint and then began to
move his arm
rhythmically about, letting the paint fall in a variety of movements on the surface.