February 20, 2021

Dusk.

Deep blue sky, dark land. Inked grey clouds hover above wobbly legs and bare skin tip toeing over sharp barnacles.

You are here to face the steady wind. And yourself. The air is cold. The shaggy, jagged beach is empty.

Two are breathing, one vast and formless, and the other one solid, of flesh and silver hairs and beating heart, wrapped in a tired swimsuit.

Get in and get cold. Use the glowing buoy as a crutch, a beacon. Steady now. You are alone here. Push the float down, rock the waves, don’t fall.

Ease forward, stub toes on submerged rocks and crustaceous critters waiting for the tide ride.

It’s been a long, painful walk to here. Tonight. Today.

You need this. Soup sputters on the stove at home, waiting. You will be warm again. After.

This is temporary. Like everything.

There is no warmth here. Just black water and wind and goose flesh.

Arrive knee deep, stop. No, go deeper.

Plunge the hands through the watery wall. Hold them there, tight fisted. Clutch your resolve. What you hold has no form, no label, no name. And the water won’t part for you, only envelope you in it’s salty spell and give you what it has to offer. Nothing more, nothing less.

Match the wind’s voice with your own whispers. Breathe hard and force out the day. The cold isn’t going anywhere, at least you can count on that in this moment.

Talk to the ice flows curling inward through your skin to the bone. Tell them, shout to them, the truth, your truth.

“I am stronger than this. I was made for this.”

A force keeps you there. Beckons you under. You dive. There is no view, all is dark.

Goodbye thoughts. There is only room to feel here.

Back up above the waves you see the scattered glow of far off lights in the distance. Life keeps going. Behind you onshore no one is home. It’s best this way. They wouldn’t understand this madness.

There is no fear here.

Only wind and water. Swim to the pilings, with head up as a tingling grows along your arms like witches nails carving patterns through the layers. Skin like cedar bark, carved of saltwater and soaked in melted snow.

No birds atop these pilings. A quick loop around and back to shore. The brown black shoreline seems to move away as you pull closer.

No panic. You’ve got this game figured out. Crawl to shore lightly like a crocodile over harsh rocks. It’s too hard to stand.

Now stand. The wind pushes you towards the warmth waiting. Feet ache, jabbed by invisible frozen barbs and the absence of blood.

But this is temporary too.

And you are awake. You didn’t realize that you were asleep all day until you came here. Did this.

Alone and in the dark was what you knew you needed. You trusted the water would let you in and let you leave.

Nothing is lost. Your thoughts have been rearranged and soaked and scattered by the time you find your shoes.

And when you return home you will be awake to taste hot soup, while droplets of saltwater still cling to your cheeks.