Porto Moniz is at the wet end of Madeira, where the north coast takes the Atlantic on the chin and the lava, having cooled into pools, takes the Atlantic on the chin every few seconds and hands you a swimming pool that is also the sea.
The water is nineteen degrees in March. That's not cold, people say, who haven't been in it. It's cold enough. You get in on the steps and by the time it reaches your chest your whole nervous system has posted an incident report and cleared its queue.
I stayed in for twelve minutes. A wave came over the wall and refilled the pool and me. An old man in the corner, who'd clearly been doing this every morning since roughly the Salazar era, nodded at me the way the jazz kissa people nod at Aiko.
Deploy from a café is fine. Deploy after nineteen degrees is a different product. I don't have a way to expense the flight. I've thought about it.