Sometimes, that dream is all I've got; at the helm, slipping down the backside of a swell, the deep blue-green wall of water all around me. Seabirds hold the air beside me and my boat, effortless in the air.
If only life were so effortless.
I earned a healthy respect for the ocean at an early age. On the beach in a storm, we would watch people climb to stand on giant driftwood logs as the surf began to dislodge them from the sand. The wrong move, the wrong sneaker wave, and people could easily fall and be crushed to death between the logs. It happened more than once.
"Stupid tourists," my Gramma would say.
One summer afternoon, my brother, cousins and I decided to body surf in a chain. There were five of us and I was in the middle. We were teenagers - immortal. We were safe. The tide was coming in. This part of the beach, near Road's End, was riptide free. We clasped hands and waded out. Knee deep, hip dip, waist deep, chest deep. Suddenly I couldn't touch bottom.
I'm the small one in the family. I carry the petite genes. At 14, I was about 4'9", a good six inches shorter than my brother and cousins.
A wave rushed in. We were lifted off our feet and that thrilling sensation of being carried along at the mercy of some greater power had us all yelling and cheering. Stupid teenagers. The wave receded and my feet left the ground. I hung tight to the hands I held. If my brother or cousin had let go, I knew ... I knew I would have been swept away; pulled out to sea. Gone in the blink of an eye.
Waves so big ... life so big. That stayed with me as a secret fear; not being able to see or touch bottom. What lurked down there? Even as an adult, I have to check my imagination when we leave the dock. Waves so big, water so cold and deep. If I let my imagination run, I'd never leave shore.
Funny, as landlocked as I am at the moment, it's dreaming of the sea that sets me free.
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