The Wave

8 May

I’ve been held down, dragging on the bottom, on the sand. The surf keeps pushing me back down. Every time it feels like I’m going to start heading up for air, down it comes again. I can’t breathe. I start breathing water. I’m kicking hard but it seems useless. Do I give up? What’s the point in fighting it. I question if there’s such thing as air anymore. The whole world is salt water and sand. But I remember it’s up there, it’s where I came from, so I kick harder. I keep kicking, and despairing, and kicking. I’m not on the bottom, but I’m not on top either. I can’t do it anymore. My body won’t do it anymore. Maybe water is the new air. Maybe I’m not supposed to fight it.

Fuck it! I give one last push against the tumult and resign to fate as I begin to lose consciousness.

Something hits me that snaps me back to life. What is it? It’s cold, expansive and vaguely familiar. My head seems to expand as salt spray whips my face. I spew primordial fluid from my lungs. I cough, I gasp. I breathe one deep breath as I turn to see a terrifyingly beautiful wave is bearing down on me. Breath two comes as I kick to catch the wave. It’s instinct now, I’m not going down again. I think about the shore. I’m not ready for it. I spread my arms. This wave will take me where I want to go.

This wave loves me. It holds me up and pushes me toward the horizon. We communicate through our bodies. It through the water, me through my flesh. It tells me when the wind is threatening the part I am on, so I swim hard to escape the crash. It tells me that it will carry me now so I relax. This wave and I go on until we meet the shore together.

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