Читать книгу Ocean Journeys: Beginnings - Brandon Southall - Страница 5

Slate gray mirror wavering; beneath it a surging, steady heartbeat, its rhythm, lullingly tranquil, belies awesome power. I slosh this sixty-degree edge of universal water, however cold, still warmer than most of its body. Bracing chill releases its grip with each passing surge. Lifted from the sand with each cycle, my body finds comfort in dense support. Gravity, pressure, time, senses all bend in this most ancient embrace. Each particle cycles in space rather than advancing with each wave and I another speck bobbing like a twig in the vast sea.

Waves roll in sets, peaks towering, lifting skyward, my outstretched nose barely eclipsing the crest. Sinking down the backside, fast and smooth, soothing cradle-rocks the ocean. Rumbling shoulders arch and collapse on weathered stone and sand. Gray mixes with white foam and the occasional sunbeam blends in a hint of blue. From each climax to dipping trough, time passes in divine synchrony.

Drift too far out and the waves mingle to near-continuous – too far in and it’s more fight than ride. Each has their attraction, particularly the exhilaration of mingling the crashing shoulders, but I nestle pleasantly between them, mindless of all but what I am feeling.

Lifting, sinking, waiting, drifting weightless; I have found this pleasure at numerous edges of water, some cold and gray, others bright blue and bath-warm. I identify with the rhythm, primeval lifeblood, and vastness of water. I live the cacophony of surf, the immensity of tides, the blistering flurry of life in a microscopic view of one drop, and the graceful artistry of a flashing school of fish. All of these and much more hover in that perfect zone just outside the arching shoulders. At least that’s where they found me.