Of all the sweaty things I do for the sake of my heart and brain this one is the best for drowning.
All the mind’s noise and doubts turned liquid—no small talk with the jellyfish. No quiet comparing of hamstrings, of heads better suited to hats; plot points, word counts, politics, wildfires.
Also: the most ridiculous for selfies.
I wriggle into my neoprene skin, slide into the water, and imagine myself something closer to cetacean.
Neither fooled nor flummoxed, the bay’s true residents ignore me.
Mostly.
A school of fish flows over and around me, a glinting river in the green gloom. Edging the shore, starfish stage their slow-mo stakeouts on the sea urchins while the sea cukes hoover the crumbs.
Under a wrinkled blanket of wave, almost close enough to touch (I don’t), a seal mamma pulls her pup to her breast with her fins, amused by my clumsy progress.
I churn on.
The ocean slides her soft fingers into my ears to stopper them and all I hear are my hungry breaths my heart’s faithful patter and I feel buoyed and held in the cradle of the sea.