With the Ocean

I am with the ocean now. I sleep to its siren song, bellowing in the deep, broken by the rolling crash of the waves. I walk along the beach. The ocean spills its frothy marine flora and carcasses of gelatinous masses onto the coast, forming blackened mounds that bake in the sun. I listen to the soft hiss of air escaping from the pale sands as the darkened waters recede with the tide. I whisper back.

–

I wander through backwash, scouring the beach for quarter-sized keyholes in the early light. I pause occasionally to forage for small fish in the tidal pools and watch the shallow waters ripple in the breeze. I leave distinct footprints in the smooth, oscillating ridges stretching towards the coastline as I continue to search for more sea life.

I find my third tiny perforation in the sand since I set out this morning. I set my pail onto the ground. Turning towards the distant dunes, I position myself accordingly and plunge the rounded point of my shovel into the earth. I slide my hand along the back of the spade into the unearthed hollow and dig for the shell. The sand spills in saturated clumps around my buried forearm, as my fingers meander around the clam. My tightened grip prevents the powerful creature from burrowing any further. I pull hard. It stretches its foot attempting to bury itself again only to touch the briny air.

I place the clam in my pail just as dawn begins to break. I allow myself a moment to silently stand and watch as the daylight colors in the dark blues and grays, pushing back the shadows. My scavenging took me far from the shore and the ocean will soon begin to raise its tide. I walk back to the beach house.

–

I feel the familiar, gritty crunch of sand against my teeth. My breakfast tastes salty. I sip on fresh water and exhale. This beach house is not mine.

The woman who lived here keeps pictures of herself on every mantle. Her arm always hung around a relative or a good friend. Maybe a lover. However, no face in the frames appears more than once, except for hers. I tell the ocean stories about her life, collecting any fragments I can find in the beach house that may further illuminate her forgotten existence.

I give the ocean my favorite memories. The taste of ice cream. The girl who kissed me in a movie theater. The smell of fresh-cut grass. My mother’s cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings. My brother crying in his crib. I want to offer it more, but my other memories have dulled over the decades. Sidewalk chalk. Baseball. Laughter. Sickness. Bubble gum. Death. As I speak to the ocean, it wraps its cold waters around my body. My voice reverberates in my chest with a cavernous echo, deep and powerful. I imagine mucus emerging from my pores, encasing me in an alien membrane. I gasp through the painful gills forming on my neck. Then, I float away in my fantasy, longing for the ocean to pull me under its breathtaking surf.

I pick up my dish and place it in the empty farmhouse sink. The porcelain clank fills the height of the tall ceilings. I gently touch my skin to check for any milky secretion. Dry and cold. I look over to a picture of the woman who lived here. She stands amongst her friends. They all hold umbrella drinks outstretched towards the camera. I wonder when she left the beach house last. Had she finished a summer vacation? Did she visit for a week in the winter just to get away? Did she walk a mile to a town with diseased bodies half-burned and then leave with the rest of them? Where did she go in this world inflected with such pestilence and decay?

–

Overcast skies darken the waters. I stoop down to pick up a pile of cedar-colored kelp and knotted fishing line. I spot a tarnished chain entangled in the mass. The ocean’s waters violently churn in the wind. I feel a storm coming soon. I should head back towards the beach house, but I look down to my treasure. I wipe away the debris from the fishing lines and begin to untangle the mass.

A heart-shaped locket sits triumphantly in my palm. I carefully open it. A lock of muddy hair topples out into the brine and the high tide carries it away. The rusted locket feels like the kiss from the girl in the movie theater. Warm and inviting, corroded by time.

I whisper to the ocean as it begins to rain. The freezing droplets penetrate my clothes, weighting them down against my body. I feel the ocean longing for me to enter its swell before I return to the beach house. I remove my shoes and grasp the locket tight.

Standing before the endless darkness, the salty surf desperately tugs at my feet, as I steadily sink into the sand. I can hear the ocean’s soft song humming to the percussive crashing of the waves. A subtle, unearthly tone resonating from the gulf. I wade further towards the melody. The tide rises around my thighs in kind and pulls me deeper into its frothy depths.

Away from the shore.

Away from the beach house.

Away from a town with the half-burned dead.

I am with the ocean now.

Another voice emerges from the dunes, frantic in its cry and partially buried in the surrounding rumble. It calls to me in an almost forgotten language. Hello?