sometimes it carries me back in

are you going to get in the water?

“Are you going to get in the water?” he asks. I’m peeling off layers, feeling solid, pure and I take off running.

I let the water lap over the tops of my feet and I about freeze. A few more times for it to lap over me until the water is fine. I can bear it. With the ocean there is no sudden splash or deep dive like jumping into a pool. You have to wade in slowly. Every step gets a rise out of my imagination, and I think I’m going to step into a horrible tangle of seaweed laced with fishhooks or a shored-up jellyfish or a shark. 

But soon I’m deep enough where the waves get big and start to roll me. I lock my knees and let it pass over. A few times I leap up into the crest, exhilarated by the wall of ocean pushing me and blasting up my nostrils. Sometimes it carries me back in and I have to hold my breath. 

He joins me. I watch a few waves collapse over him. I get nervous when he goes out too far. When the water crashes into me and pulls me to shallow water I imagine losing him forever. What if the last thing I see is his back as he faces the wave? He resurfaces laughing but fear sits in my stomach like a red hot nickel ball dropped onto gelatin.