My people have a tradition: a simple one, with many parallels here, of a lying in the waters.
A slow bend in a river is found: a shallow spot, though not an eddy. The water must flow straight The one-who-is-cared-foe lies in the water, floating on their backs, accompanied by one or two that they trust completely. They are supported by a hand in the small of their backs, to keep them afloat, to keep them from drifting.
A cloth is wet in the water and passed over their skin: starting from the shoulders and working one's way down to the feet. The face and throat are laved separately, for their hold different tensions. The cloth is wrung, time and again, in the river water. All that clings to their skin follows the river, into the ocean.
I did this for my husband, in the evening: I laid him in the water and bathed him with my own hands. I remember the second vision of his skin emerging pale from the dirt, too long hidden beneath it: of pressing my hands flat upon his chest to crack its chitinous surface, or watching it flake away into the water.
The day, however beautiful, can be poison: let me always be there to cleanse him.