May 1

Written by: michaela renee
5/1/2009 7:22 PM

A little salt on the deepest cut stings the most...

One day I stood with my feet deep in the sand, the ocean waves lapped over my ankles, and quickly, with each receding wave, my feet sank deeper; before I knew it, the tide had risen.

I was surrounded by water. I was standing in the middle of the ferocious Pacific ocean. Rather than turning to run, I stood still. I was almost calmed by the way the water rolled in, and the sky got dark. Stars peppered the ceiling above my head and somewhere amongst my fear I felt safe.

The sand became a mold of my feet and suddenly it was soothing to watch the wild of the ocean all around me and know that the water would not get higher, I would not sink further. So I stood still.

Then it all changed. I felt a current that sent a warning all the way up my legs and landed somewhere between my eye lashes and my gut, and I was afraid.

My friends stood safely on the beach and they yelled my name, they warned me to run. I turned toward them, but I did not walk, I did not move.

That’s when I remembered the old adage…never stand with your back to the ocean. But it was too late, and that’s when the wave came crashing down.

My knees hit the sand first. It didn’t feel soft. It felt like miniature knives. I instantly felt the bloody trickle as the rocks tore into my knee cap.

Through the roar of the sea I heard my friends yell again. My hands clawed the earth as I attempted to stand up. Through the dim moonlight I saw the water begin to recede and in a flash the next wave was putting the weight of a lion on my shoulders. My chin hit the beach where my hands had been seconds before.

Since when could the ocean be so cruel? Why did it seem to have an agenda? Why was it tackling me?

I was learning quickly that the art of standing still was torture, and I began to drag myself toward the shore. But the ocean had begun a game it intended to finish.

It had no concern for me, it only wanted to ensure that if I made it out alive, I didn’t come back. Ever.

I leaned back on my heels, tilted my head back toward the sky and with the force of a bull in Madrid I stood up. One foot in front of the other, wiping the blood from the bottom of my chin I walked forward.

My friends were frantic now, they asked me to run. I was afraid, but I would not run.

My body began to realize that some of the waves were deep and emotional, more powerful than their weaker counterparts. But the weaker ones seemed to be more frequent and more violent.

With each step a new wave sent me crashing down, but with each fall I became closer to the shore, closer to safety. My feet and legs were covered in rocky cuts and they seemed to correspond with the waves, some deep, some shallow.

After a long struggle with one foot in the safe zone and one left in the ocean, I made a fatal mistake.

One of the weaker waves had rolled up just enough for the salt water to sting one of the deepest cuts. And in this moment. I spun on my heel and looked the ocean right in the face.

I tucked my head in between my arms and dove head first into the cold water. I kept fighting until I had nothing left. The ocean was brutal, the ocean had won.

I felt my limp body slowly roll into the shallows of the surf and I felt the warm arms of my friends drag me up onto the beach.

As I stared up at the empty atmosphere, coughing up water, covered in blood, salt and tears I saw the disappointed looks of my friends and in the background I could still hear the ocean, it seemed to be laughing.

Had I walked I would have won, but instead I fought, and I fought well. I still lost.

That’s when I learned that sometimes even standing still with your head held high can be a dangerous thing if you turn your back you could drown.

And a little salt on the deepest cut stings the most, so next time I’ll just run backwards.

Copyright ©2009 Michaela Renee

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