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Winston Montecarlo—straitjacket tight and handcuffs locked—stands on the pier. His assistants have stepped back. He’ll jump any second, but for now he’s still, like he’s not sure if he belongs to the land or the water or the brief air in between. On the beach, the crowd wonders: What is the great Handcuff King thinking? Is he testing his constraints? Is he studying the Atlantic’s swells, waiting for the proper entry point? Is he studying the audience’s swells, the silence and cheers and silence again, ever a performer? Before they can wonder if he’s frightened, he dives into the May-cold