Wading

Would you like a hand to hold, said the woman I had just met, as we made our way into the surf. I had just mentioned I didn’t know how to swim, but wanted to wade. At our feet the water darkened then foamed. Coquina clams burrowed into the sand, and periwinkles, and sand hoppers. I shook my head and smiled. She strode out to deeper water, dove under; then floated on her back, as comfortable as someone in a hammock, feet pointed toward the horizon. The waves rolled in and out. The current pulled beneath, around my legs. The depth of letting go is always changing: that bit of sand erodes as soon as the heel touches down. Boys guided kites and ran toward the jetty. Farther away, row upon row of hotels and sunblocked tourists. Where we were, the gulls swooped lower, crowned the evening with their lonely sounding cries. We rolled up our towels and made our way back across the road as the sea began to stretch into vaster dark.

 

In response to small stone (95).

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