They are the only ones who fit my small-scale feet. I am the only one who fits into them. Two floppy flippers with rubber straps and extended fins like fish. Two who do not belong on my feet, but are. Two advantageous scuba tools gripped on my ankles. From above water, I struggle to walk, but underwater, I kick and soar. 
Their strength is known. They send massive currents beneath the surface. They kick up and they kick down and propel the liquid between their slippery fins and slap the ocean surface where water meets air. This is how they work.
Let one remember the reason for these, with feet that only slice through water, flailing to reach crisp air from 100 feet deep. Keep, keep, keep kicking they say when I struggle. They repeat.
When I am too lethargic and too weak to keep kicking, when I am a miniscule creature among infinite depths, then it is I slip on my flippers. When there is not enough strength in my miniature feet. Two who soared despite my failed fleet. Two who flop and do not forget to flop. Two whose only reason is to kick and kick.