Tempest

Saltwater chokes me. I've swallowed pints of the stuff, and I'm done. I'm sweating...my own measly contribution to the briny soup I struggle in. Growing weaker with each stroke, I try to power past the roaring surf, the foam that laughs at me. I see dolphins effortlessly cutting accross the breakline. I sense their joy, feel their intelligence and wish that I could fly among them. Stroke. The surf assaults me, slapping my board away, flinging me like a ragdoll. Snap goes my leash. Shit. Gaze up at the rising wave-crest, a gaping maw ready to devour me. The sea doesn't want me. Some days it welcomes me like a lover..gently.. and on others it rages and punishes. Rattled, lungs bursting, I explode to the surface and am buried again. I realize that I love breathing and miss it terribly.

Is this when I die? ..I wonder if passing through the gates of death is like crossing quietly over a pasture fence. On the other side, you simply keep walking, without the need to look back. No shock, no lights, no sounds of thunder or great voices, just the simple lifting of a plank in the fence and the peaceful walk into fields of gold.

But not yet. Not yet!

Float. Float on your back, stop struggling. The sea relents, allows me to backstroke in to shore..I gasp on the sand for what seems like hours. My board and my fear are the only things I've lost.

Ocean-1, Chris-0