I come out here once every night, to watch the waves crash lightly against the shore. Not many people can spare enough time to see the sea. I'm fortunate to be free in these times. To see the sea. How fun the thought sounds. I roll it around in my head a few times. I might even speak it once or twice. Can't hear it out loud, however. The sea is too loud for that.
Sometimes I think I'll embrace her like a lover. The fanciful part of my mind imagines it'll be delicious --warm soft crests splashing gently across my bare chest as I soak in her vastness. The practical part of my mind tells me she is too fierce. There are large rocks on the shore, sharp stones. Caught in her riptide, I may find myself dashed upon the craggy exterior.
Everyone else seems afraid of her, for they don't see her beauty. The golden shimmers she shoots off in every direction when the sun hits at just the right angle, the silvery gleam she produces twinkling lightly on the shore, little figures dancing in an archaic rythum by the rippling of her smooth surface. Once in a while I catch some child staring longingly at her, with a faraway look of wonderment I must have had when I was the same age. Always some attentive guardian catches the gaze and breaks it. Always a glance back before being hurried into the huts that make up our paltry little village.
Twice a year, she swells up, bringing with her the spoils of a war that we will never see. And to the victor goes the spoils. It's laughable -- as if she would ever lose anyway. Hundreds, maybe thousands of fish. I was never one for counting. I'll go out in this little dinghy, and draw them in by the tens. Pull. One. Pull. Two. Pull. Three. Always takes three pulls. Then up, up, up. The fish come out of the water. My net is quite worn now, and small. No good for pulling in large quantities of fish. But for two weeks on end, I'll heave in as much as I can. No one ever helps me. Too afraid of the fickle mistress.
By @tommievelez
