Salt Wounds

All I can taste is the salt, filling my body. Deep in my throat, my stomach, my lungs, the lining of my nose, erupting, burning.

Then - I am free.

I come up gasping. The power of the wind is everywhere - tearing water if I stay too low, biting air if I stand up. I tread blind. Somehow, I still have the board. I clench it with white fingers.

She beats me, again and again. The Atlantic. She has hold of me, and won't let go.

I am bruised. I am in pain. And still I come back. One more wave. One more wound.

Fifteen years ago I'd tread water on this same beach, the slowly descending sun, the slowly ascending sunset, riding the waves back to the shore. The rest of the world wasn't there. I'd stagger home at twilight, my stomach empty, ready to dive into the cupboards with salt-caked fingers for fresh baked bread and jam, too impatient to wait for dinner.

Now, it all feels too hard. The wind is too strong. The wave is coming, and I can't jump it in time, too late to catch it.

I dive under.

I open my eyes, holding my breath. The world is drifting seaweed like lost hair, lonely jellyfish. The sea has drawn her breath and let me inside.

Above, the glinting light as I look up in watery limbo. The waves pass over, and still it wavers. Deceptively bright. Hopeful.

I take my chance and come back up.

The storm is still there. It's all a lie.

I'm immediately pummeled back underwater. Down into a muted stillness, where somewhere inside my body can open and breathe.