I’ve gone overboard.

The currents rip me to and from with eagerness and relentless force until I tumble out onto the shallow surf like a beached animal. My body hits the sand like a ton of bricks would and I think, “I’m not moving until the tide comes back for me.” I spit salty water, bitter and full of texture, from pale lips that no longer find it easy to form words.

I am so exhausted, I wonder how, and definitely why, I survived the recent ordeal. No longer do I seem to stand tall at the bow of a grand seafaring ship, surrounded by stretches of endless wonder, but rather casted into the ocean blue where I might wash up somewhere, so much like a messenger bottle or a bucket of sloppy fish parts that need purging.

The gulls are quiet. They are full from a day of easy scavenging, too frightened to approach, or simply going unheard by my waterlogged ears.

“I think things are going really well,” sounds more like, “Wombothotgot rembelwolot.” Surely I should be glad to be here, still breathing and resting on the surface of the silky sand, yet I only feel bruised, tarnished, and entirely spent.

I could waste away here—easily.

I thought you were made of tougher stuff than this.?

The tide draws outward and I slowly dry in the long sun.

There must be others on this beach too, but I am too weak to hear them or seek them out.

^{June 21st, 2024}

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