Morning light slanting through blinded windows wakes me.

Downstairs, barefoot and swimsuited, I pour coffee into a mug wheeled by hands.

Driving towards the ocean, I round the bend just past the pond and see a stroller-pushing-dad tucking against the paved shoulder. I brake – hands at ten and two. Drifting over the double yellows into the left lane, my nod greets his wave. I remember that chapter of my own life: pushing the twins to the coffee shop and then to the bench overlooking the piered beach.

Cresting the hill, I see the layered horizon: blue sky, on gray clouds, on white fog, on sandy dunes waved with green grass. The striped palette of a summer morning.

I park in our usual spot, stash the keys behind the gas cap door, and walk down to the water. Stepping from dry sand to wet, my toes brace for the first wave. Not ready. I step back to let the undertow retreat one more time.

Wading knee-deep, I count down from ten. Deep breath. Three . . . two . . . one . . .  Dive. Ice. Eyes shut tight. Fingers search. Touching the bottom, I push to the surface. Warm air. I turtle onto my back with toes up and arms winged. Floating. The waves lift and cradle . . . lift and cradle.

Strangers arrive, lugging themselves over the dunes and past the lifeguard stands where they unfold chairs, push open umbrellas, and lay flat their colored towels. 

I float against the tide. Pushed in, I swim out, making sure my feet can touch the bottom. “Be safe,” I remind myself, thinking of my family and wishing for simpler times before the nightmares. A time when the world felt safe – the ocean detaching me from worries atop my finned board, watching for the next wave, feet dangling unconcerned. A time when our dreamed-of future felt inevitable. 

I weigh cold water against warm land and lift my feet one more time. Buoyed by the sea, I turn to gaze towards the horizoned-shore I cannot see. 

Thanks for reading,

Peace