The water is cold. It always is, no matter the month. No matter the rumors of summer warmth. It startles the body into living. It sweeps away the cobwebs of thought, and for a few seconds—those first sharp seconds—it is impossible to think of anything at all except the meeting of skin and sea.
And then, as breath returns and the limbs remember their strength, something else begins: the slow, rhythmic falling into the language of water. My body becomes part of it, pulled and held, tossed gently or firmly, depending on the mood of the tide. The water’s clarity shifts day to day. Some mornings, I can see my own toes, fish darting like sparks through kelp forests below. Other days, the sea is cloudy, stirred by winds or underwater storms I’ll never understand.
But always, it is beautiful. And always, it welcomes me.
The water is cold. It always is, no matter the month. No matter the rumors of summer warmth. It startles the body into living. It sweeps away the cobwebs of thought, and for a few seconds—those first sharp seconds—it is impossible to think of anything at all except the meeting of skin and sea.
And then, as breath returns and the limbs remember their strength, something else begins: the slow, rhythmic falling into the language of water. My body becomes part of it, pulled and held, tossed gently or firmly, depending on the mood of the tide. The water’s clarity shifts day to day. Some mornings, I can see my own toes, fish darting like sparks through kelp forests below. Other days, the sea is cloudy, stirred by winds or underwater storms I’ll never understand.
But always, it is beautiful. And always, it welcomes me.
