Bed-headed and clad only in yesterday’s jeans, he walked into the tiny market across the street from his stilted beachfront bungalow. The sign on the door said “NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE,” but he was still young and well-built enough that nobody complained. He stumbled sleepily among the aisles until he found strawberry Pop-Tarts and instant coffee. At the counter he asked for Winston 100s and a book of matches, and he yawned and tousled his unkempt curls as the young clerk rang up his items. “You eat that stuff?” she asked him, nodding toward the Pop-Tarts. He had already broken open the cigarettes and had one bouncing between his lips when he shrugged and replied in his rough morning voice, “No choice. There’s no good markets around here.” He smiled to show he was joking and she returned his smile. A moment later, walking back toward the breath sounds of the water and the gulls riding the morning wind overhead, his breakfast swinging in a plastic bag at his side, a thrill of freedom swept through him and he knew, for at least one more day, that it was good to be young and alive in a place like this.
Maybe it’s just because I’m a writer, but standing ankle-deep in the ocean always raises the same idea in my head, “I’m connected with every place in the world. Now that I’m in this water, I could step out of it on any continent.” In truth, I never venture in these days above my ankles. Can’t get far that way. I just don’t want to scare the ocean, that’s all. I know how intimidating I can be, and the ocean has been through so much already.
If you round up, this world is all water. Giant squids frolic in the lower atmosphere. Whales and sea turtles and tuna hover just above the firmament. A young dude, his eyes wide open and his jeans back on the beach, dives as deep as he can before he has to go back and breathe. We are all swimming, treading water, this close to drowning.
Hello, friends. I hope you’re well.
Later. Love.
