CHASING the tides like they were chariots of her Majesty, the underwater queen, and I longed to join them in number, hush up the world as I rushed forward to kiss the feet of her brother beach, occasionally rattlesnake-hissing as the particles of my barely contained anger at humans for impurifying my mistress with their filth, add in their on kind of sound to the occasion.
Standing knee-deep in the waters and ignoring my sopping shorts, I let the small currents toss and squabble over my bare legs. Unconcsciously, as the hours hobble on, I make a slow way up the beach again, feet still submerged but the water level dropping with each pulled-out-of-the-sand step I took. Finally I reach the point where only the white crests of foam stretch to lick your toes, tintillating you with the last breaths of the sea, the mother.
It is there that I pause, pesky sand particles clutching to my wet legs and feet. I wait for the last tide to wash over my feet again, removing all the tiny parasites. Of course as soon as I take a step closer to the vast body of water, stretching to meet the boats waiting, as if in ambush, on the horizon, I am drawn back into her and end up back in her outskirts, thirsting for the feel of her loving hands clasping against me, gentle and sometimes abrasive, stronger and ephemerally hotheaded, but always managing to hold me in a vise, thick and strong.
It is this day that I look at the sea and stare something unpredictable and beautiful in the eye without flinching and without backing off. It is this day that I infiltrated the soil beyond sight with my toes, pushing deeper and deeper in to see if I could maybe bury my fears. It is this day that I held the water and felt and knew and saw that nothing else in the world would ever feel the same.
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