OCEAN BLUES 

by Evelyn Rogers

I used to like to swim. When I was little, I would run giggling towards the sand, my little feet tripping, stumbling towards the surf. Sometimes I’d snag on shells, or step on slimy seaweed but I’d always get back up. Then I’d crash just like a wave into the water and the ocean would caress me like a lover and enfold me in its bosom until bubbles burst from my mouth and I’d have to come up for air. When I was older, I’d run again, my heels slapping against the concrete, heedless to the cries of the lifeguard and I’d jump. The edge of the pool and the mouth of the sky would kiss as I crashed. “Cannonball!” Underneath, cocooned, I opened my eyes like a frog, one lid, then two. The fuzzy colored shapes of swimmers would congeal into greater focus and I’d watch them spinning, making shapes of their own and kicking knife-sharp kicks through the rioting mass of liquid and air. The dappled blue light of the wet would blind me, in that blurry half-sight. I’d drag my limbs, heavy and light, contradictory, in a curving sweep, enjoying the fizzle-pop of the pressure in my ears and the dimmer sounds that came with it. The quiet noises of water rushing, the blanket-thick thud of feet against tile. But then, I shied from the ocean, hid from the pool. My body, I noticed, was uncomfortably soggy and tight in wrong places, confined me and kept me tied to the shore. The weight of my chest, the drag of my hips. Wrong, wrong. It dried up the joy of it. I tried swimming, after I realized. I floated on my back and watched the sky, squinted my eyes and wished for goggles. I waded in the kiddie pool; which was a bad plan, let me tell you. I dove back into the deep end, rolled my pants up and walked barefoot into the sea. But none of it worked. The weightlessness that comes with water, that’s buoyancy, the ability to float. It also means optimism, cheer. Sometimes though, when you realize something’s wrong, you sink. I sank. Deep below, far out of reach… But drowning isn’t that easy, when you’ve got people watching the water. The parts of me, my chest, the bits that weighed me down like an anchor, I cut them loose. Now, I’m like a sea-creature myself, flat and smooth. Fast. I know, the next time I kiss the water, the next time I embrace the sea, I’ll dive right in like I’m made for it. Like I said, I used to like to swim. This time, I think I’ll love it.