I never actually learned how to swim but I loved the beach. I loved the feel of foamy currents licking at my feet, taunting me to come closer. The naivety of a child’s mind demands I trust this unknown yet familiar spirit, so I instinctively follow my gut. Slowly dragging myself into the steeper ridges where the tip of my toes occasionally bounces off rolling pebbles of the sea bank.
The sea takes over from here and I am violently pulled into the chaos of the salty shoreline.
Bubbles of air roll out of my ears. And then silence.

Silence.

In that brief moment, the waters take me as one with them; a maternal tryst. A temporary hold before I am only hurriedly shoved onto dry land in the same violent manner. As if in the brief moments of my pull into the saline abyss, the universe tilted and her waters didn’t trust me anymore.

But her intent is not discordant. The tentacles of her unhinged waters are a promise. An ironic symbol of assurance that her waters will always return me to the safety of dry land. It was also a storytelling mystique. She tells me tales of many men before me. Greater men who have walked the face of the earth. Tales of loss and redemption. Tales of the irreplaceable warmth of home and of men driven mad by eons of being lost at sea.

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