The sound of a buoy’s bounce.
7.16.18 – Float-ating
The surf is dragging me back out, a broad curtain that’s been tangled about my feet and is slowly rolling its business discretely beneath the light’s cast. I’m already tasting the heavy salt and trying my best to not let the sand ablate the soft shell I’ve been cultivating. Blood in the water never did flesh any good and we’ve already spotted the white flashers of a starving saw slinking about further off land; another worry for a wiggler. I would have thought the ebb was too weak to steal me back but even the drag against earth is doing little to deter the extended effort. Every wash is only another tug towards a deep, persistent blue.
There’s even less grip on this loose silt than I would have thought. I can stick my hand through its crust but the interior is swimming like quicksand and only wants to join me in a retreat. I’m not leaving a smooth track but one of a drunk meandering its way towards a neon sign and hoping salvation is found under the danger of another drink. I’m just as sluggish and probably lured in by similar demons, but there’s a conscious clawing still happening at the edges of that awful entry, one that might suggest I’ve still got a harp at my shoulder and some breath left to give it.
I always figured the murk would call me in of my own will and I’d simply stand at the ends of its tendrils and dive head first into the shallows. There’d be no crack, just a quick dark and the bubbling of dreams expiring as they scurried upward to surface and disappeared from our trace. I was already a body in the ocean but I was unsure if I was still truly struggling or if I’d been swimming like a puppet, limbs moving from a steady current but no real reach from my own hands. I remember the gasping coming on, but some days that felt like it happened so long ago.