The prior night I needed to begin the outpatient regimen, I had a phenomenal dream that characterized the errand before me. My mentor and I were remaining on the shore of a disallowing waterway. We could faintly see the other shore far away out there. This was plainly the course for a long, deceptive untamed water swim that I was going to embrace, discovering my direction and moderating my quality in solitude, through dimness, undertow, jellyfish, and fear. It helped me to remember the English Channel, the Everest of swimming, which my mentor had swum as a major aspect of a transfer group at age sixty, a remarkable deed. On both shores there were gigantic, rough, sharp slopes, which I saw that I would need to explore both going down to the water and returning up from it—a reference to the tricky physical and mental encounters ahead. As much as I feared the treatment, I had not deliberately understood that it would be as hard to climb move down to the typical world toward the end of the experience as it was to submerge myself in that unsafe, strange "sea" of agony and trepidation toward the starting; the two battles were of a piece. The scene was a physical representation of, and a psychic arrangement for, what lay before me.