I’m not sure why I’d always been intrigued by the ocean. Maybe it was because it was forbidden. After all, ever since I was little Mama always said, “even one toe in the ocean means certain death, you hear me? You best stay far away.” And I did, at least for a while. But the ocean kept calling, beckoning me closer. The smell of salt carrying through a cracked window, a gust of unusually strong wind ruffling my hair; the sea was practically begging me to return. When I could no longer resist, I made my way between the dunes to the beach below. I was alone out there, of course- no one was crazy enough to go to the beach anymore. I untied my sneakers and kicked them off - I wanted to feel the sand between my bare toes. I stood there for hours, staring out at the water. How could something so beautiful, so vast and alive and unending be bad? Sure, the ocean was powerful. But that was just nature - you respect it, it tolerates you.

I spent the next few weeks doing just this - standing barefoot in the sand, watching the waves. Only after a while did I gain enough courage to make my way down to the water. I started with one toe, of course, and once Mama’s theory was disproven, I went in to my ankles. The water was colder than I’d anticipated, but I adjusted after a bit. Every day I went a little bit further, until just my head hovered above the surface. Then I went under, and for a moment the whole world was quiet.