Dream of the Ocean
The ocean becomes treacherous.
We’re playing in the waters, waves tickling, gently pushing and pulling. We taste a kiss of salt and float on the skin-surface, laughing, lapping, diving. But then the ocean becomes treacherous. Waves grow, insistent—push, pull, push. I feel panic. There’s a tug in my gut and the water drags down my legs, grabs me, and folds me into itself. I’m spinning in the dark; I am consumed completely. The motion of the water is churning warmth in my belly.
The wave slams me down on the sand. I’m on my stomach. I feel it move. I feel it rise. How did we not see how unnaturally high the water was? How dangerously steep the bank declines? Even twenty feet out and we were swimming upon a dark depth.
I catch a desperate moment of breath, knowing that I’ll be alone with it in the ocean. My lungs squeeze around that moment. It may be all I have. I feel that pull again but this time I give up; I give in; I allow the ocean to take my body, me a rag-doll, and I am passed from wave to wave. Disconnected-connected force. Disconnected. Connected. Force. I am almost calm. My body is the ocean’s; at least the decision not to struggle is my own. Everything else is the roar, the rush, the push, the pull, the drag, the slap, the slip, the pressure, the depth.
I dream of the ocean often, and it is always dangerous. The moment I sink into the water something transforms. I scream warning to the people in the water but they don’t hear me. I scream inside myself and nobody hears. The ocean overcomes me as I fight upwards on the sinking sand, the water rushes back and, I know, into the colossal wave that will come, that will break, that will slam.
Everyone drowns.
But tonight something is different. I grab my footing, I catch my breath and I reach the dry bank. A lion of a man stands at the waters edge, his arm outstretched and quivering, his back arched, his body a roar. He yells at me–– “Save my son! Save my son!”–– unable to leave the dry sand. There is a rope in the water. I hesitate.
I pass one end of the rope to the lion, and then dive into the ocean with the other. Everyone is drowning. I swim to the son; through the veils of motion I see his white limbs and--no—black hair--oh god no, not—blackest of black--please--
I grab the child and we struggle to the surface, I struggle for our breath, I’m desperately trying to call the lion--pull, pull, push, push! And we--
–– break upon the shore. The lion’s son is a white egg and I give it my breath. He breathes. He breathes.
I try not to think it, but the idea is pulling at my legs. No, no. A lion of a man. In the violent waters I tie a rope between him and his son. I am. Oh god. Do I even need to say it? The colossal wave. His back arched.
This is the treachery.
When I wake up, I often wonder: Why does she run into the water?
We’re playing in the waters, waves tickling, gently pushing and pulling. We taste a kiss of salt and float on the skin-surface, laughing, lapping, diving. But then the ocean becomes treacherous. Waves grow, insistent—push, pull, push. I feel panic. There’s a tug in my gut and the water drags down my legs, grabs me, and folds me into itself. I’m spinning in the dark; I am consumed completely. The motion of the water is churning warmth in my belly.
The wave slams me down on the sand. I’m on my stomach. I feel it move. I feel it rise. How did we not see how unnaturally high the water was? How dangerously steep the bank declines? Even twenty feet out and we were swimming upon a dark depth.
I catch a desperate moment of breath, knowing that I’ll be alone with it in the ocean. My lungs squeeze around that moment. It may be all I have. I feel that pull again but this time I give up; I give in; I allow the ocean to take my body, me a rag-doll, and I am passed from wave to wave. Disconnected-connected force. Disconnected. Connected. Force. I am almost calm. My body is the ocean’s; at least the decision not to struggle is my own. Everything else is the roar, the rush, the push, the pull, the drag, the slap, the slip, the pressure, the depth.
I dream of the ocean often, and it is always dangerous. The moment I sink into the water something transforms. I scream warning to the people in the water but they don’t hear me. I scream inside myself and nobody hears. The ocean overcomes me as I fight upwards on the sinking sand, the water rushes back and, I know, into the colossal wave that will come, that will break, that will slam.
Everyone drowns.
But tonight something is different. I grab my footing, I catch my breath and I reach the dry bank. A lion of a man stands at the waters edge, his arm outstretched and quivering, his back arched, his body a roar. He yells at me–– “Save my son! Save my son!”–– unable to leave the dry sand. There is a rope in the water. I hesitate.
I pass one end of the rope to the lion, and then dive into the ocean with the other. Everyone is drowning. I swim to the son; through the veils of motion I see his white limbs and--no—black hair--oh god no, not—blackest of black--please--
I grab the child and we struggle to the surface, I struggle for our breath, I’m desperately trying to call the lion--pull, pull, push, push! And we--
–– break upon the shore. The lion’s son is a white egg and I give it my breath. He breathes. He breathes.
I try not to think it, but the idea is pulling at my legs. No, no. A lion of a man. In the violent waters I tie a rope between him and his son. I am. Oh god. Do I even need to say it? The colossal wave. His back arched.
This is the treachery.
When I wake up, I often wonder: Why does she run into the water?