CB watches the ocean as he smokes.
The island has a mid-sized town, the town has a small marina, and just off to the side of the marina is a long pier. CB sits at the end of the pier, trying to figure out if he can feel the island floating. It’s an artificial island, after all, and since it’s out in the middle of the ocean he’s pretty sure it doesn’t go all the way down, so it has to float. It’s not so much an island as it is a boat that looks like an island: boats float. Boats also move, and since Robert built it, CB’s convinced that not only does it float and move, it can probably submerge itself. At this point, he’s not willing to dismiss the idea that it can fly.
But he’s focused on trying to feel the island float. On the boat-island proper he can’t feel anything—it’s indistinguishable from solid ground as far as he’s concerned—but out here there’s… something. Maybe it’s just his imagination, but he thinks he can feel the slightest hint of a bob.
The air rustles in a not-quite-natural manner, then something thuds on the pier behind him.
“Hello Roger.” CB doesn’t turn. He flicks cigarette ash out into the water.