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We all live floating on an ocean.
From the very beginning, from when we come into the world from a place without a name and without memory.
There are those who see it and occasionally dream of diving into it, to breathe in a preview of infinity.
Then to resurface to breathe in the sunlight.
There are those who do not see it at all, there are those who are terrified of it.
There are those who see it truly in the real form of an immense floating mass of saltwater, between two continents.
There are those who seek it, the infinite, above its impetuous waves, on a surfboard.
The only true beach boy, as the story goes.
The one who was liked by women, the one with the wrong and dangerous friendships.
The one who perhaps didn't have Brian's genius but certainly had the sensitivity and restlessness, and, thanks to these, though in smaller number, beautiful songs gifted to the band.
There are those who, one day, diving from a boat into that ocean, only wanted to make one more caress of love and who cannot return from that ocean, because the ocean recognized him too soon as made from its own substance.
Dennis Wilson was that man.
This is his first and last album in life, cold and wonderfully blue like the embrace of the Pacific Ocean that, one day, never let him go again.
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