Escape

When I was little and we’d moved to Spain I used to play with the ocean. I used to pretend I was in a race and see how fast I could run to the other side while it tried to splash my legs. I’d jump in the water and under waves. I’d be pushed back and forth by the water and just completely embrace the water in my bones, until it felt like I was water too.

It was an escape.

We went there almost every week; it was a very easy escape. When I moved to Arizona there wasn’t the same option of the beach. Driving to San Diego every other summer didn’t seem to do it. My soul almost cried out for the fresh salty air, the slapping splash of water, and the unforgiving sun tingling my skin.

It subtly tore at everyone, the longer we went without going to the beach. It wasn’t just a vacation to us. It was an escape.

To me more than anyone. I would still rush into the water when it was no longer child-like glee. Just to feel the crisp bite of the cold, until my body accepted the fact and bowed to the whims of temperature. I’d never want to get out. I could be thrown about, but all I could hear and feel were the waves, the water, and the wind.

It was nothing in my brain. No thoughts of school. No thoughts of my family. No thoughts of work. No thoughts of anything other than the tempestuous nature of the ocean and how I could stay in it as long as possible.

And feel like I was apart of that too.