We were water babies. Me, born in a bath tub. You two, near-drowned in my presence. We lived on the beach in bathing suits, our skin burnt and hair filled with sand. Dad draws faces in the shoreline, we run in the waves. We walk until the water is up to our chins. We jump with the waves.
We sit on the sea wall and point out the people, the pretty, the strange. We turn around to watch the surfers, their short-lived rides. We don’t know how tired our bodies are. We are happy for the shade of the palms. We lay on the grass on blankets and sleep deeply. We can still feel them, the approaching waves, the cool salt water, the roller coaster of the tide. We feel at home in the open. The ocean exhales and inhales. We are certain of this ebb and flow. We are certain that life began in the water. We do not know where it ends.
We have watched documentaries on tsunamis, the shore pulled back so far it looks like it may leave forever, come crashing down with force. We think this is the pattern of nature, a constant return. We know nothing of droughts or dry sea beds. So when the tide recedes slowly to the horizon line, we will hold our breath forever waiting for it, a wave to fill an empty sea.