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Ocean Swim in Winter

I took my aging, inexpensive point-and-shoot camera, the one with rubber housing, and I stomped toward the ocean. It was winter. The Pacific.

I walked with determined steps. Like I knew what I was doing.

There were very few people in the water. Suddenly I knew why. The water seeped through the seams of my wetsuit, hit my face, and I couldn’t help an audible gasp/wail. So cold. What had I done?

I stayed.

I stayed and stayed.

After a while, it didn’t hurt any more.

I’m infatuated with her. What is it, exactly, about the ocean, that draws us?

Maybe it’s her curves: beautiful, like hips or lips, a body that gives and engages.

Maybe it’s her power: she sets me back, knocks me over, swallows me up, and I get it. I’m not invincible. She puts things in perspective.

Maybe it’s her caress: she calls. She pulls. She laps. She soothes. She always says yes.

I swam deeper, my feet leaving the sand. I dove into waves. I let myself play. I always feel a child in the ocean. I can’t help but marvel and play, and feel vulnerable. I look to the ocean like a child to her mother. What is it that I want from her? Acceptance?

I looked up to see the light inside a wave—the curtain turn gold just before it hits. It hit. For a brief moment, all went black, churning. Then back to gold and blue.

Between the waves hitting and the current pulling, I felt ripped, tossed, and pulled. Icy water stabbed deep inside my ears. I thought, maybe the ocean is in a bad mood? Maybe I endeared her too much, and required of her something unfair and unrealistic. Maybe I’m just fragile, and tired. Maybe it’s time to go.

I went limp in the current, then found my way back to sand under feet. I walked back, still in the water, against the current. My hand caressed the waves. She is marvelous.

I’m grateful to have this date with the ocean.

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