I Must Go Down to the Sea Again

I could sit and look at the ocean forever. I’ve never lived closer than an eight hours drive, but I’ve visited from time to time. Once, with my parents and two of my sisters, before the third was born, again when my own sons were quite young, from time to time during conferences and meetings, on two ocean cruises, and flying over the expanse of the Atlantic, I’ve savored it. From time to time I’ve waded, probably never more than knee deep. Until now.

Far too often I’ve stood on the beach, the sideline of life, afraid to get into the game. I’m available for commentary, ready and eager to direct or describe the action, but the mêlée? I leave that to the actors. Conversation? Let me talk to the group. One on one? Too scary.

At least these truths evidenced themselves until nine months ago, the day I embraced OA and found myself wrapped in the support of my brothers and sisters. This day, three quarters of a year, I stand supported and loved, ready to face my fear.

I snuck up on my fear, buying a swimsuit in May, carrying it to a June retreat but isolating instead of daring to swim. Carrying the garment to Wisconsin, I admired it in the suitcase but never removed it, ignoring invitations and the pool beneath my window.

Today, the suit got wet. With salt water. I announced I intended to play in the surf, but over the swimsuit I donned shorts and a shirt. And I took my drivers’ license, credit card, cell phone, and new fancy camera with me. Did I really expect to get into the surf? Probably not. I did take off my sandals, fasten them to my shorts, and walk with my feet in the edge of the water, as I had before. I put the shoulder strap of the camera bag around my neck so I couldn’t drop it, fear of falling paralyzing me. I felt sand erode under my feet with surging and ebbing water. I ventured a few feet further, anxious, nervous.

I scanned the beach for an acquaintance attending the same conference, somebody I knew but had never conversed with of course. Maybe I would ask them to watch the camera. Should I take it back to the hotel? Maybe I could leave it with the desk clerk instead of confronting my husband in my folly. Three strangers sat in lawn chairs on the beach. Were they trustworthy? Better to disguise it as clothing piled, invisible among other piles.

There weren’t other piles, just one. Did I trust that family? On a wave of courage I put the bag on the concrete base of a pier, far from the water, close enough to the seawall few people walked up there. Resting on sandals, wrapped in the clothes, perhaps the large camera seemed innocuous enough. In my untried suit, wearing trifocals, I ventured into the surf.

I must get the suit wet. Finally water splashed the garment. Mission accomplished! I could return and retrieve the camera. No. Not enough. I went further out, and further, and further, surprised when a wave splashed drops on my face. I took off my glasses, held them tight, and moved further out. I marked my progress by the nearby pier. It would be marvelous to stand even with the building spread out near the end. I got close, about 3 feet the goal, but the waves were covering my head, the sun was long since down, and I was swimming alone, though a family of four were within sight, paying no attention to me.

I didn’t need to prove anything. I was far enough. Standing and relishing long enough to soak in the moment, I worked my way to shore, dressed, and climbed to the top of the sea wall where on a bench I pulled out the camera to take pictures of the area. In the darkness the quality suffered.

It's okay. The images in my head will remain pristine. I have dared to live in tomorrow.